


A Week is Seven Days

by Justlikewriting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Auror Harry Potter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood, Clubbing, Domestic, Draco Malfoy has been in Azkaban, Kissing, M/M, Memory Charm | Obliviate (Harry Potter), Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, but don't worry about it too much, reference to violence, using a Muggle phone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justlikewriting/pseuds/Justlikewriting
Summary: Harry knew it was his own fault: that he himself had actually come up with the idea of keeping an eye on Malfoy in the first place. But: a whole week, Malfoy was going to be in Harry’s house fora whole week.It looked like this would easily be the longest week of Harry’s entire life.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, minor Luna Lovegood/Neville longbottom
Comments: 16
Kudos: 234





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story being as it is, it seems only logical to be posting this work per day of the week that it describes. So that's what I'll be doing😊.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It had been very early that Monday morning, when they’d been alerted to the break-in. Harry and Terry Boot - his replacement Auror partner, because Ron was on honeymoon in Australia - had been assigned to patrol Diagon Alley and its surroundings for the night, keeping an extra eye on Slug’s and Jiggers Apothecary. 

This had come as no surprise, since within the last week there had been three burglaries into wizarding apothecaries all over the country. Every time the culprits had only taken the most expensive and rare potions. As a result the Auror Department had upped security around all Apothecaries, of course including the one in London. 

They just hadn’t counted on it being Shyverwretch’s on Knockturn that would get burgled, though.

But that was where the alarm had just been raised and where Harry and Terry had consequently gone, finding the owner - just wearing his robes over his pyjama’s - livid but alone. The thieves that had robbed his shop had obviously already fled the scene.

“So, you came downstairs as soon as the Wards went off and you saw them flee,” Harry now repeated.

“Yeah, and I didn’t really know how to-,” the man tried to explain, “I’ve never had to call in the Aurors before.” So, that’s why the owner of the shop had been late calling them in. Harry understood how that would have worked, because although it had changed somewhat over the past few years, Knockturn still wasn’t the sort of place where Aurors were typically particularly welcome. 

“And I don’t know what exactly they took yet, but I do know you should talk to that piece of Malfoy sc-.” The owner of the shop must have picked up on something in Harry’s face, because he stopped, adjusting to: “To that Malfoy boy. One of the burglars walked into him, just before turning the corner, and he looked him straight in the eye before running off again, the Malfoy brat didn’t even lift a finger.” Here the man looked pointedly at Harry and Terry, adding, apparently wanting to be sure they knew exactly where to find Malfoy: “He works in that club a little further down the street.”

Harry nodded. They would follow up on that, of course they would, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It had been so long since he’d even heard Malfoy’s name: Harry’d testified on his trial and although Harry hadn’t really agreed with Malfoy’s sentence, that had been the end of it. 

And Harry would have been quite content if it had stayed that way.

***

Harry didn’t go out to clubs a lot, he didn’t go out a lot, full stop, really. Sometimes he went to the Leaky with Ron and Hermione, but, if he was being honest, the last time he’d gone there had been months ago already.

When he came into what he knew was the club that Blaise Zabini had started around three or four years ago, it, however, was exactly as he had expected it to be: loud and hot. Furthermore it proved exceedingly difficult to find anyone in there, the strobes making it hard to actually see.

But when the lights finally stopped flickering, Harry saw him immediately: Draco Malfoy was bartending. If someone would have asked Harry what he thought the prat would be doing by now, this certainly wouldn’t have been on his list. Yet, here he was, working behind the bar and doing a good job of it, too, by the looks of it. He was actually mixing a drink with practiced ease and insolent skill, his whole body moving in a way that was both elegant and sure. The beautiful witch he was mixing for obviously couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Zabini said. Harry started, at the same time registering that the owner of the club had apparently found them, probably having been alerted to two Aurors visiting his club. Zabini smiled.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry answered, because he didn’t exactly have enough experience with other bartenders to be able to compare. 

“Well, let’s just say it definitely pays to have him work the bar.” 

“Yeah, well,” Harry said and he decided to just cut straight to the uncomfortable bit. “We need to speak to him. There has been an incident … . Has he perhaps been acting differently today, or erm-, recently?” 

Something like concern seemed to cross Zabini’s face, quick like rippling water, before he answered: “Not really. He did seem a bit distracted when he came in today, but that’s all. Draco’s …” Zabini didn’t finish that sentence, adding: “I think you’ll find that whatever happened, he didn’t have anything to do with it. Oh, and you can talk to him in my office. Draco knows where it is.”

*** 

“So what is this about?” Malfoy’s drawl sounded exactly like it used to and Harry found it still annoyed him exactly like it used to, too.

He tried to put it aside.

“There has been a break-in at Shyverwretch’s Venoms and Poisons here on Knockturn,” Harry started to explain. 

“Yes, I know where it is.” Malfoy’s voice sounded impatient, emphasising his arrogance even more. “And before you ask: I didn’t do it.” 

They were sitting opposite each other in the easy chairs that Zabini’s office seemingly harboured. Malfoy was close enough for Harry to see the stormy grey of his eyes.

“We’re not saying you did. It’s just-, one of the perps was seen running into you, literally. So, we thought you might know …” Harry had wanted to finish his sentence, but something made him stop. 

Malfoy shook his head almost imperceptibly, frowning as he did so. “I, I don’t remember anyone. I … .” He said it like it surprised him too, then shook his head again, more or less like he wanted to clear it. 

“But you were seen,” Harry’s partner Terry now piped up, “The perpetrator nearly ran you over and according to our witness you actually looked him in the eye. Still sure you don’t remember?” Terry’s tone was decidedly unpleasant, insinuating something that Harry was not quite ready to believe yet.

Malfoy had most definitely never been Harry’s friend, not in any sense of the word, but something just felt terribly off here. 

“No, I’m still sure I don’t remember.” Malfoy sounded slightly more like his arrogant self again when he answered Terry. “As a matter of fact I-, I don’t remember anything about coming here.” He looked straight at Harry and it was as if he was willing Harry to believe him, to find the truth in his eyes without actually having to ask.

Harry knew what Malfoy thought. “Obliviation,” Harry concluded, “that could also be an explanation.” 

“Really?” Terry looked at Harry as if he had just suggested for them both to have a baby together. “Harry, you know what he is. _Obliviation_ , yeah, right. Highly convenient, don’t you think?” 

Sometimes Harry really, really missed Ron. Granted, Ron probably wouldn’t have trusted Malfoy either, but he _would_ have trusted Harry. And Harry just knew this didn’t add up somehow. 

“Malfoy, we’re going to have to take you into custody. Tomorrow we can have a Healer look for any traces of this so-called memory spell,” Terry continued relentlessly.

Harry watched the effect those words had on Malfoy, his eyes closing and his face contorting into something that could best be described as pure agony for a moment. And Harry knew. He just knew. 

_Azkaban._

Malfoy had been sentenced to a year of Azkaban just after his trials, and although the Dementors had been banned from guarding it by then, it was still bound to leave a rather definite mark on anyone who’d been there. Including Malfoy obviously.

“I don’t think there’s any reason for us to take him in just yet.” Harry said to Terry directly. 

“Like hell, there isn’t. What do you think people will say when this story gets out? Oh, poor Malfoy, of course he didn’t have anything to do with it.” Terry made his going-to-have-a-baby-together face again. “And in the meantime Malfoy’ll just get out of the country or he’ll go underground with his potions-stealing friends.”

“Well, not if I keep an eye on him.” Harry had said it without thinking, but once it was out he found he couldn’t take it back again. It made sense, though. At least to himself. When he’d said it.

Malfoy and Terry, however, now seemed to agree on something for once. They were both watching Harry like he’d finally lost it.

Terry was the first to speak: “You can’t just-, what? Take a suspect home?” 

Harry shrugged, deciding that, since he’d dug himself this hole, he might as well jump into it head first. “I don’t think Mr Malfoy is a suspect yet: he’s really just a witness, but I could keep an eye on him for tonight. Just to be sure.”

Terry kept watching him incredulously, but apparently couldn’t find a counterargument convincing enough, finally nodding his reluctant consent.

Malfoy watched Harry too, his face levelled out by now. Harry had expected him to be indignant, angry, but he wasn’t – he just wasn’t anything much, to be honest - and when he spoke, it was a brief question, devoid of any emotion: “I take it I won’t be able to finish my shift?” 

Harry shook his head.

“I’ll have to tell Blaise.” 

***

Okay, so this was weird. Draco Malfoy was standing in his living room, taking it in annoyingly slowly. “This is a Black property, isn’t it? Great-Aunt Walburga lived here.” 

Yes, of course. Harry had forgotten Malfoy was actually related to the woman whose portrait still managed to terrorise anyone she laid her eyes on. 

“I almost didn’t recognise it, though. It looks, well, comfortable.” Malfoy said it with some difficulty, which was when Harry realised he’d surprisingly made him a compliment. Of sorts.

“Well, I’ve only redone the main rooms and it took quite some time, but I like it like this,” Harry knew he sounded more genuine than he had wanted to. Malfoy was not a friend - he was a witness, or a suspect, or whatever he was at this point - but not a friend. 

So Harry aimed for a detached, objective tone when he continued: “We need to talk about where we’re going to sleep. I’m afraid we’ll have to be in one room for the night.” 

If he’d dropped an actual bomb, Malfoy’s face would probably have done something similar to what it was doing now: utter surprise flashing over it, intermingled with something very much resembling hurt. 

It annoyed Harry considerably. What had the git expected: that he’d trust him enough to have his own room? So Malfoy could take off without Harry noticing early enough to do anything about it? That definitely wasn’t going to happen. Harry might think there was something off, but that certainly didn’t mean he actually trusted Malfoy.

No, Harry had promised to keep an eye on Malfoy and he was absolutely going to do so. Which meant sleeping in one room, so that if Malfoy would try to escape and the Wards went off, Harry would be able to take care of it immediately.

And judging by the look on Malfoy’s face just now, that was definitely the right decision.

***

Right, Harry hadn’t exactly thought this through. His bedroom held a comfortably large double bed, but sleeping in there with Malfoy just wouldn’t cut it.

“You don’t suppose we’re sleeping in there together?” The disdain in Malfoy’s voice was very obvious indeed. It was clear he didn’t much care for sharing a bed either. Harry briefly considered saying that, yes, he did actually have that in mind, just to spite Malfoy, but in the end he refrained.

“No, I’ll just cushion the rug and sleep there,” Harry said. He felt tired and the truth was, he could probably sleep almost anywhere right now. At least for a bit. Until he’d wake up again.

Malfoy arched one eyebrow, exactly like he would have when they were still in school and Harry braced himself for the taunt that was bound to follow. 

“You will do absolutely no such thing. I’ll take the rug: you’ve always been appalling at transfiguration and your cushioning charms are bound to be even worse.” Malfoy’s words caught Harry by surprise. Until he registered that next to apparently not wanting to rob Harry of his bed, Malfoy had also managed to insult him. 

He was right, though. Harry had never been particularly good at any of those spells.

So Harry just shot Malfoy a quick glance. “Thanks. I think.”

Malfoy shrugged, keeping his gaze down, but Harry thought he could have been looking amused.

Next Malfoy transfigured the rug into a neat mattress - piling it with the bedding and pillows that Harry provided him with - after which he started to undress himself in silence, his back pointedly towards Harry. Harry decided to do the same, changing into his pyjama’s quickly, only then realising that Malfoy obviously wouldn’t have anything to wear for the night. 

When he turned to tell Malfoy he could borrow some of his pyjama’s, Malfoy had already slipped under the bedsheets, however, his eyes closed.

***

Harry couldn’t have slept for more than four, perhaps five, hours when he was woken up by an owl that had attacked the window with a vengeance. It was an owl Harry recognised straight away.

Robards.

He let it in without delay and took the parchment it was carrying, absentmindedly giving it one of the owl treats he kept in the drawer of his nightstand, just for instances like these. 

Harry already knew what the message was going to be about, before he’d actually read it.

_I expect you in my office straight after you’ve had Mr Malfoy checked for his alleged memory loss._

Terry had already talked to Robards, of course. 

Harry really, really couldn’t wait for Ron to come back.

“I take it we need to check in with the Ministry today.” Malfoy said, his voice arrogant and indifferent as ever, but gravelly with sleep all the same. Harry looked his way slightly startled, having almost forgotten Malfoy was here with him _in the same room_.

“Yes, we do, but we’re going to St Mungo’s first, to see whether you actually were obliviated.” Harry kept looking at Malfoy, who was obviously having trouble waking up. It was quite disconcerting to see him like this, because for some reason Harry had just always assumed that Malfoy got out of bed looking like he always did: completely put together, everything in place. That very much wasn’t the case, though. Malfoy looked like he, well, like he’d been asleep really: his eyes squinting a bit, like he had trouble adjusting to the light and his hair messier than Harry’d ever seen it.

“Okay,” Malfoy just answered, getting up out of bed and starting to put his clothes back on. 

It was only when Harry turned to get dressed too, that he realised he hadn’t woken up at all throughout the four or five hours of sleep he’d had.

***

Terry Boot was loitering by the door to Robards’ office when Harry and Malfoy got there. 

Of course he was.

“Mr Malfoy actually was obliviated,” Harry told him, just a slight bit of victory hiding in his voice. “The Healer at St Mungo’s was absolutely clear on that. I even have a written statement.” He waved the piece of parchment at Terry, slightly more of the victory creeping in.

Terry shrugged. He didn’t look terribly impressed.

***

“So it wasn’t possible to restore Mr Malfoy’s memory yet?” Robards asked. He still sounded calm, not like he was going to explode anytime soon, but Harry knew better than to feel safe already. He knew exactly how Robards would first want to know all the facts before actually eating him alive.

Harry shook his head. “No, the Healer tried, but Malfoy was obliviated quite expertly and the Healer wasn’t able to bring his memory back. We’ll have to wait for Hermione to get home.” And for Ron. Please. So that he’d have an Auror partner he was actually able to work with again.

Robards considered this for just a moment, letting the facts sink in. Hermione Granger was the leading expert on anything memory related. Robards knew that, but he also knew she wouldn’t be back before next Saturday evening. “Okay, but Mr Malfoy _was_ obliviated. We’re sure of that now.” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t actually mean anything, now does it?” Terry. Of course, it was Terry, piping up again. “I mean, Malfoy could still be working with them and have _asked_ them to obliviate him. You know, so he really wouldn’t know anything about it. I mean, people were bound to come and ask him questions now the potions were stolen so close to where Malfoy works. I still think we should take him into custody. Just until his memory is restored and we’re absolutely sure.” 

Harry had never felt so much like hitting another Auror on the nose. 

“But that’s exactly the point, isn’t it?” Harry reacted, more heatedly that he had wanted to. “If Malfoy hadn’t been an Ex Death Eater we wouldn’t even have been here. We’d have questioned him, asked him to come to St Mungo’s to see whether he’d actually been obliviated and that would have been that. We just would have told him to come to hospital again once Hermione’d be back. We wouldn’t even have _discussed_ taking him into custody at this point.” 

Right. That was exactly what Harry didn’t like about this whole thing: everybody assuming things they couldn’t know anything about, just because of Malfoy’s past. It seemed unfair in its partiality and Harry had never taken well to that sort of thing, not even in relation to Malfoy, it seemed.

Robards appeared to think it all over. He still hadn’t exploded yet, which, given the circumstances, was probably a good thing. “So, you don’t think we should take him into custody?” 

“No, I think we should just let him go for now. There’s nothing to tie him to the crime.”

“But that would be stupid. He could run, he could plot anything.” Terry again. “What would people say if we’d just let him go now?”

“Yes, and there’s that.” Robards pondered before seemingly making a decision: “Harry, I hope you and Mr Malfoy get along.” Harry knew that Robards was aware they didn’t. “Because he’ll be your responsibility for the next week. Until we know more.”

“But,” Harry felt his face heat, “But sir, that’s-, that’s _seven days_.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. A week is seven days,” Robards just said mock patiently, while Terry gave Harry a look of barely hidden glee. 

Okay, it was going to be a week. Only a week.

But it looked like this would easily be the longest week of Harry’s entire life.


	2. Tuesday

Harry looked around in absolute horror. The atrium of the Ministry, normally the proud testament to what the wizarding world was capable of, had been almost completely destroyed: the attack swift and entirely unexpected. 

And Harry hadn’t been able to prevent it.

“Ron!” he screamed and it came out painful and raw. Ron had been there, just a moment ago, but Harry couldn’t find him anywhere anymore. He started scanning the debris. There was so much of it.

And that’s when he saw him: in between all the rubble left behind. “Ron!” Harry ran to where he saw Ron’s head sticking out from under a pillar that had fallen. There was blood everywhere.

“Ron!” his scream came out decidedly strangled now, and he felt tears running down his face, his subconscious obviously having caught up with something Harry’s conscious self didn’t want to believe just yet.

“Harry,” it wasn’t Ron’s voice, but it was soothing somehow. “Harry.” The voice was very, very close and Harry felt a hand gently shaking his shoulders. “You’re dreaming.”

As if on cue the atrium started to disappear and Harry felt himself quiet down. A few shaky breaths later he was able to open his eyes, turning a little to find Malfoy hovering over him, a soft orb of light hanging suspended in the air beside him. 

Malfoy looked like he was worried and the first conscious thought Harry had, was that he’d actually never seen that particular look on Malfoy’s face before. 

And that it really suited him. It made Malfoy look soft in a way that Harry hadn’t actually thought possible: a concerned crease in his forehead and his blonde hair messily falling into his eyes. 

“I was having a nightmare,” Harry felt obliged to say, his voice painful from screaming. 

He still had them now and then, the nightmares, but he had hoped they wouldn’t happen with Malfoy here, because, well, he felt sort of stupid about them. It was almost ten years after the war, after all, and he felt like he was weak, because he still had bad dreams. He felt like after all this time he should have gotten over all of it: the War, the casualties, the destruction. 

The guilt.

Everyone else seemed to have.

“Of course you were.” Malfoy didn’t quip, but merely stated, quiet and completely serious. “Annoying, aren’t they.” There was a hint of humour there, but it wasn’t at Harry’s expense, more of an attempt to lighten the mood a little.

“Yeah. You still have them too?” Harry realised, not even really asking.

Malfoy nodded almost imperceptibly. “Sometimes.”

And Harry didn’t know why he did it – perhaps it was the quiet of the night or the realisation that he wasn’t entirely alone in this or just that he wasn’t fully awake yet - but before he knew he’d done it, he had taken Malfoy’s hand, interlacing their fingers. 

It was something he and Ginny used to do when they’d ended up in this situation. 

Malfoy’s fingers, however, obviously weren’t Ginny’s: they were long and warm, but Harry found they were just as comforting. And for some reason Malfoy didn’t pull back.

“So I heard Granger and Weasley finally got married. Was it nice? The wedding? You know, seeing everyone again?” For a moment Harry felt completely off-kilter. Malfoy asking after Ron and Hermione’s wedding was, well, strange. So he didn’t answer, which apparently made Malfoy want to explain. “It usually helps me to think about something else, you know, after I’ve had a nightmare. So I thought you might-.” He stopped, his voice having gone uncharacteristically quiet.

Oh. 

_Oh_

So Harry told him, about the wedding and how nice it had been, and about how he had seen so many people he’d lost contract with over the years.

And at some point - he couldn’t even tell exactly when - Harry just drifted off to sleep again, his fingers still interlaced with Malfoy’s.

***

When Harry woke up to sunlight seeping through the curtains, the night seemed far off, but he knew it had happened: the nightmare, the screaming, Malfoy’s unexpectedly comforting presence. Harry turned to find the other end of the bed now conspicuously empty, though, Malfoy apparently having retreated to his own makeshift mattress some time during the night. He was still sleeping.

Harry made it out of bed as carefully as he possibly could, realising he was off today. He’d been working shifts all weekend and yesterday, but in exchange he wouldn’t have to work today. 

And as usual it made him feel slightly lost. Because, what was he supposed to do with all this time? Without having a goal? And on his own? 

Except today he wasn’t actually going to be on his own, now was he? He had a guest, even if it wasn’t one he’d particularly cared for having. 

So, Harry decided he could at least make an effort and cook them a decent breakfast this time. Yesterday they’d been in a hurry and Harry had done what he usually did: making some tea and toast, eating it standing up and in the process of Floo-ing out.

Today he could actually make an attempt at doing a better job of it.

So Harry set to work: making tea and toast, of course, but also fried eggs, bacon and sausages. He even salvaged a tin of baked beans from his pantry: he’d never cared much for those himself, but Malfoy might. He knew Ginny had loved them.

***

“A full English it is, then.” Malfoy said, when he finally strolled into the kitchen. He sounded as arrogant as ever and he looked it too, all softness of the night before entirely gone. Still there was no malice to his words, they were just an observation.

“Yeah, I thought I’d make us something decent today. I actually like a full English, but cooking elaborately like that just for myself sort of feels like a waste, really.” It was only now he said it, that Harry realised how true it was. He actually liked the repetitive action of cooking, but not the eating alone part that usually came afterwards. So he’d just taken to conveniently not cooking at all. Just toast. And tea. For breakfast.

***

“That bacon is absolutely delicious.” They’d been eating in silence for a while, but now Malfoy had just made this comment. Out of the blue. And Harry agreed, his bacon had turned out to be quite nice, but this still took him completely by surprise. Malfoy had actually paid him a compliment, a real, full-blown one. Not even a ‘sort of’ one.

Harry was momentarily lost for words.

And it must have shown, because when he looked back up at Malfoy, his eyes held humour and his lips quirked just a little, as if he had to keep himself from smiling, as if he didn’t know it would be okay if he did. 

“Are you actually all right? Perhaps you’re not accustomed to the concept of praise?” Malfoy now added. It came out the drawl Harry was used to, but it also sounded amused, as if Malfoy couldn’t quite help himself.

Harry was able to hold back some sort of snort just in time. “I am, kind of. Just not coming from you.” 

That was when Malfoy actually did smile, just short of a smirk: “Well, if you keep frying bacon like that, I might just do it again.” Then a short silence and when Malfoy started to talk again, it was about something else entirely, as if he was afraid amusement wasn’t quite allowed: “So, you’re off work? Or do you work a late shift today?”

Harry’s face must have shown some form of surprise, because Malfoy elaborated, slightly impatiently: “It’s rather late for an early shift. Even for the most famous Auror, I take it.”

Harry decided to let that slip and glanced at his clock: its hour hand almost at lunchtime. Okay, Malfoy had a point. “I hadn’t realised it was this late already,” Harry said, swallowing the ‘You took your time getting up’ that threatened to come out next, instead just adding: “But yeah, I’m off today.”

Here Malfoy was silent for a beat. He swallowed, then started to talk again: “I know it‘s probably not standard procedure, but I’d like to go to Diagon today if that’s at all possible. There’s something I’d like to look for at Flourish and Blotts. And I would also like to go home, just to get some clothes and toiletries.” Malfoy sounded as arrogant as ever, but there seemed to be a question to his words, just a hint, and he certainly wasn’t _demanding_ anything, something his younger self would probably have done without giving it a second thought.

“Yes, of course.” Harry couldn’t get the words out quickly enough as he realised Malfoy actually had a valid point: he had every right to get himself some things, since he still didn’t even have anything to sleep in yet. “Of course we can get some stuff from your place,” Harry continued, adding more hesitantly: “I’m not sure about Flourish and Blotts, though. Strictly speaking you _are_ in custody.”

For a brief moment Malfoy looked like he was going to say something taunting, but then he visibly bit it back, averting his gaze at the same time. “Thursday is my mother’s birthday. I wanted to get her a book I know she’d like.” His voice was rather quiet all of a sudden, as if saying it took some effort, as if he hadn’t wanted to say this out loud.

Consequently it took Harry surprisingly little time to make up his mind, Malfoy’s quiet, almost shy tone apparently having that effect. “Yeah, well, all right. Nothing about this whole situation is standard procedure as it is,” Harry replied. “I’ll have to accompany you, though.” 

Malfoy’s face showed a sense of relief that was almost disconcerting. It was swift, gone within the second, but Harry was sure he’d seen it, though. 

***

Malfoy had found and bought the book he had wanted quickly, almost before anyone, except for the wizard at the till obviously, could have noticed. Then he cast a quick _Tempus_.

“Ready to go to mine? I’m not connected to the Floo network.” Malfoy said it a bit apologetically, his voice sounding slightly tense. He was holding out his arm for Harry to be Side-Alonged. 

So Harry took Malfoy’s arm, only realising as he did it that he hadn’t even hesitated, that he had trusted Malfoy to actually take him to his house - and nowhere else - without question.

***

They’d landed in a drab part of London: faceless blocks of flats lining roads that were just as depressing. And Malfoy, after having cast another quick _Tempus_ , had started walking towards one of those blocks. 

It was definitely not the sort of luxury setting Malfoy had grown up in, but it hardly could have been, seeing as Malfoy Manor, and all of their other possessions, had been confiscated by the Ministry after the trials.

Somehow Harry hadn’t exactly expected this, either, though.

“I live on the twelfth floor,” Malfoy said, when they’d made it into the, astoundingly _Muggle_ , building. Malfoy went straight for the stairs, expertly evading a group of teens sitting there. He was obviously expecting Harry to follow, but Harry lingered behind, looking at the lift. They had to go all the way up to the twelfth floor after all.

“If you’re going to wait for that thing, you’ll still be waiting by tomorrow. It’s usually stuck.” Malfoy’s posh accent seemed so out of place here it was shocking. 

So, the stairs it was, then. By the time Harry had resigned himself to having to walk up to the twelfth floor, Malfoy had already darted up to the first. “Do keep up.” 

Harry found he couldn’t even be offended. 

When Malfoy opened the door to the flat he apparently lived in, shooting yet another _Tempus_ , they were greeted by the spicy smell of foreign food and the sound of people talking and laughing animatedly. The hallway seemed deserted, though. 

Harry shot Malfoy a puzzled glance that Malfoy apparently interpreted correctly, answering: “I rent a room here. Their eldest son has left, because he’s earned a full scholarship to Cambridge, and they’re renting out his room.”

Harry was quite sure the puzzled look hadn’t quite left his face yet, but he followed Malfoy through the hallway to what seemed to be Malfoy’s room. It was small, only just enough space for a bed, a small wardrobe and a desk that could be folded out over the bed, so a chair was quite conveniently unnecessary. As Harry had expected, the room was extremely tidy. 

While Harry was taking in the room, Malfoy had produced a suitcase from a small space under the bed - where it most definitely should not have fitted - and had started packing.

Harry noticed the suitcase was wizarding and could probably easily have taken the contents of the whole room.

Malfoy shot a _Tempus_ again, Harry noticed. He had always known Malfoy was punctual, but really, how many times did anyone actually need to know what time it was? 

Then Malfoy waited a long moment, got his suitcase and walked out.

“Draco, you’re here.” A beautiful, teenage girl, with golden skin and lush black hair smiled at Malfoy. “Mum said you weren’t in, but you didn’t forget.” 

The soft smile Malfoy gave her, was so unexpected that Harry would probably remember it forever. “Of course not,” Malfoy just said. And Harry realised that must have been why he had been casting _Tempus_ upon _Tempus_ all afternoon. He had some sort of appointment with this girl.

“And you brought a friend,” the girl said next, seemingly having spotted Harry, who was standing in the doorway, only now. Then she saw the suitcase. “Are you going on holiday?” 

Malfoy just said: “Well, I-,” at the same time that Harry said: “Yes.” 

At that Malfoy didn’t say anything for a beat, shooting Harry behind him a look that could have been gratitude. 

So what had Malfoy actually thought: that Harry would tell this girl Malfoy was a suspect? That Harry had to guard him? Harry tended to be honest, but he definitely made exceptions when needed. 

He felt like Malfoy should’ve known that and for some reason it annoyed Harry that he apparently hadn’t. 

Malfoy in the meantime went into his room again to sit on the end of the bed, the girl hopping on next to him. The door was still open, because otherwise their legs wouldn’t fit. Malfoy smiled. “Well, let’s have a look at your French books. What did you cover this week?” 

So, that’s how Harry found himself sitting in a hallway, his back against the wall, listening to Draco sodding Malfoy patiently explaining French grammar. Harry didn’t think this day could get any stranger.

***

“Oh, Draco azizam, you’re back.” A woman who was obviously the girl’s mother now stood in the doorway of what most probably was the living room, watching Malfoy from across the hallway. “You didn’t get home yesterday morning and I-.” She sounded worried.

Malfoy looked up at her. “Yes, I wanted to let you know, but I didn’t have my phone on me. My apologies.” He actually _sounded_ sorry and it made Harry itch a bit: he hadn’t even thought to ask whether there was anyone who needed to be notified when Malfoy had been taken in. But well, Malfoy hadn’t told him either.

“Always so formal.” The woman smiled at Malfoy, obviously having forgiven him already. “Would you like some tea, you and your strapping friend? There’s zulbia.”

Malfoy looked at Harry again, questioningly arching his eyebrows, but of course there was no way that Harry was going to turn down an offer of tea, even if it came with whatever zulbia was. 

*** 

Zulbia appeared to consist of threads of fried up dough soaked in a very, very sweet sirup that completely satisfied Harry’s taste for sugar. It was entirely nice, as was the company. The family - parents, four children now the fifth was at Cambridge - was warm and loving and Harry definitely understood why Malfoy would be living here, in this flat, with these incredibly hospitable people. It felt like a real home.

“Well, we really should be off now,” Harry said. They had stuck with the holiday story, although Nurie, the girl’s mother, had conspicuously refrained from asking where they were actually going. 

Nurie nodded. “When can I expect you back?” she then asked Malfoy. 

“Monday next, probably.” He evaded her eyes as he said it and Harry was suddenly aware of how uncertain he looked. Harry’s first thought was that Malfoy probably knew more than he was letting on, that he expected to be convicted, but on second thought that didn’t make sense. The Healer had been absolutely clear: Malfoy’s memory of the night before yesterday had actually been tampered with quite expertly.

“And _you_ should take good care of him,” Nurie now addressed Harry, something much more serious underlying her broad smile. “I’ve been trying to fill Draco up a bit, but my work’s obviously not done yet.”

Harry just smiled at her, hoping that it came out reassuring enough.

***

“So you voluntarily tutor this girl? What? Once a week?” Harry asked, when they were walking back to their Apparition point. He was fully aware of how unconvinced he still sounded.

Malfoy glared, almost as if Harry had offended him somehow, but then his face evened out again and he answered: “Shirin? Yes, and usually also the day before a test. Quizzing her and all that. You know, just to be sure.” Here he paused a beat, then adding: “As far as I know she won’t be having a test this week, though.” 

They both knew why Malfoy had added that last sentence and Harry pondered the uncomfortable silence that followed, eventually asking: “Why didn’t you just ask me? Whether you could be here in time to tutor her?” 

“I didn’t know whether you’d believe-. And I did have to get my clothes, anyway, so I thought-.” Malfoy went heavy on the drawling, but this time Harry had the distinct impression he was making an attempt at hiding something else entirely.

“Well, you did save us another trip here.” Harry smiled, trying to ease the tension around them a bit, because, although Harry really didn’t want to, he did understand what Malfoy was trying to say. And the worrying thing was: Malfoy might even be right. Just a little. 

***

When they got back to Grimmauld Place Harry found he just had enough food in the house to be able to make them a salad. He decided to owl a few shops for food straight away and then started to make them dinner.

“You do know there are spells for cutting food?” The arrogance in Malfoy’s voice was there, of course, but Harry also caught the amusement underneath that Malfoy seemed to use rather regularly.

“Yeah, I do. I just like to do it by hand.” He looked up at Malfoy, shoving the tomatoes that were still very much in one piece, his way. “Here, work your magic with these.” 

The pun was obviously not lost on Malfoy whose mouth did something like a half-smirk. 

After which he made short work of cutting the tomatoes in annoyingly thin slices by casting just one well-performed spell. 

***

It was that evening, just after dinner, that the next Ministry owl found them. Again it sort of flew into the window head on, but this time that seemed to be, because it was carrying a cube that was slightly too heavy for its frame.

Harry opened the parchment that came with it and discovered the cube was some sort of imprisonment ward the Unspeakables had been working on. When activated by the accompanying enchantment, it would be set to Malfoy’s signature, not letting him pass outside of its boundaries, while allowing everybody else to go wherever they pleased. Only when Harry would perform a long series of counter-spells would Malfoy be able to move anywhere else. 

Wards like these were also used for some areas in Azkaban, but this one was set to encompass more space, allowing Malfoy the use of a large part of Harry’s house (although no one seemed to be able to tell exactly how large a part that would actually be) while Harry would be able to go to work.

 _Because we’re understaffed as it is and you’re not getting off that easily.”_ Robards ended his letter to Harry.

When Harry told Malfoy, he was ready for whatever Malfoy would throw at him, but Malfoy just shrugged. “At least they won’t make me come into the Ministry with you.” 

And Harry could see how that would have been awful, humiliating even, which was when Malfoy added: “Because, just so you know, I’m not doing your sodding paperwork for you.” 

Which was so unexpected it made Harry snort a laugh. “Well, I could actually use someone to help with that,” he said. The pile on his desk really was quite enormous, and it tended to grow, especially when he wasn’t looking.

‘Well, count me out.” Malfoy’s voice still was completely level, but Harry thought he saw a glint of humour in his grey eyes anyway.


	3. Wednesday

When Harry heard his alarm go off the next day, he felt grateful, more than anything: he’d slept even worse than he usually did. No nightmares, though, just waking up much too often for comfort, idly watching the dark before being able to fall asleep again. 

The alarm going off was a relief.

Harry got out of bed softly - no need to wake Malfoy yet – before he realised Malfoy wasn’t actually sleeping in his room anymore: Harry had given him the guest room just across the hall, the cube thing they’d gotten last night ensuring that Malfoy wouldn’t escape.

So Harry took a leisurely shower, which actually turned out to be much too leisurely, because all of a sudden it was later than he’d thought, making him have to dress quickly. 

When Harry finally got to the kitchen, he knew he’d have to go for his toast and tea routine again.

“Good morning,” Malfoy greeted Harry. He was quite obviously already in Harry’s kitchen and Harry couldn’t help but be a bit startled at first. Malfoy had been elegantly leaning against the countertop as if he belonged there - even though he was just wearing pyjamas that looked much too loose on his slim frame and his feet were bare - but now he pealed himself off, taking a plate so full of food that some of the toast was actually precariously balancing on top, and offering it to Harry.

Harry didn’t know what his face had done when he’d been busy being slightly shocked, but Malfoy furrowed his brow, saying: “Oh don’t be overly dramatic. I was awake anyway, so I just thought-” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, but he obviously didn’t have to and Harry couldn’t help but smile, broadly, before taking the plate that Malfoy had given him. “Thanks.” 

Bacon – okay, not as good as his own had been, but close – eggs, toast and even a tiny bowl of jam. Harry ate it all, quickly washing it down with a healthy amount of tea. Then he made for the Floo.

***

“So, how are you and Malfoy doing?” Harry didn’t like the malicious undertone of Terry’s voice one bit. Well, Harry had decided he really didn’t like the whole of Terry all that much, come to think of it. 

“We’re fine,” and Harry realised how true that was. They hadn’t even argued yet, not really. 

Perhaps they’d both grown up: he and Malfoy. Quite contrary to Terry, though, it seemed.

Terry seemed almost disappointed, as if he had hoped Harry would have regretted his decision by now. Well - Harry thought rather defiantly - even if he had regretted it, Terry would most likely have been the last person to know.

***

The rest of Harry’s workday went by in a quick blur. An unregistered Animagus had been spotted and Harry and Terry actually spent most of their day hunting it – a rather large, grey fox quite conspicuous in the centre of London. They hadn’t been able to catch it, though, the fox still roaming free. 

Much like the potions’ thieves actually. 

There had been another burglary into an apothecary, in Edinburg this time, but the progress that had been made on the case was rather disappointing: namely none, whatsoever. The thieves seemed inconspicuous, like shadows, until they struck, usually making it out with their loot so fast that no one was actually able to identify them.

Except, of course, for when one of them had walked into Malfoy.

The Malfoy that was currently in Harry’s house, the Malfoy Harry had to go back to this evening. Harry sort of waited for the dread he expected at that realisation to kick in, but surprisingly it didn’t. And Harry noticed that, although he still didn’t exactly like the idea of Malfoy, as a guest, in his house, he really didn’t completely dislike it either. Not like he’d initially thought he would.

*** 

When Harry had stumbled out of the Floo in his house and gone to his kitchen, he was welcomed by a fresh, lemony smell. The kitchen looked clean, the floor shining and all dishes - including the stuff that had been used for breakfast - neatly tucked away in their appropriate cupboards.

Harry couldn’t keep his smile from coming – but that seemed okay, because there was no one here to see it anyway – and he decided to start cooking, happy to find comfort in the repetitive action of cutting and stirring and making something that smelled absolutely divine.

“Do you need my impeccable cutting skills?” Malfoy lounged in the doorway as he asked. He was wearing a pair of jeans that looked about two sizes too wide – making it impossible to spell them to fit - and a shirt of which the sleeves were a fair bit too short, but he still managed to look elegant.

“No, too late.” Harry answered him brightly and it surprised him somewhat to notice that it _was_ actually how he felt. It really was nice to cook for someone. Even if that someone was Malfoy, apparently. “You can set the table, though.” 

So that’s what Malfoy did, whizzing a tablecloth, plates and everything else onto the table with a few graceful flicks of his wand. And it wasn’t like Harry didn’t know it could be done like this, because he did. It was just that he himself didn’t usually use magic for this sort of thing.

For Malfoy that would be quite different, though: he had grown up with magic. And although he probably wouldn’t have performed any household spells when he was young, for him magic was likely to come as naturally as breathing.

_A Muggle block of flats._

Harry had noted it was odd that Malfoy lived in a Muggle flat, but he hadn’t given it any further thought. Perhaps he should have.

“So, this family you live with, are they wizarding?” Harry thought that might be the answer as to why Malfoy was living there, but as soon as he dropped the question – just after they’d started eating dinner - he saw that it couldn’t be. 

Malfoy stopped moving his fork to his mouth, glaring at Harry. “No, they aren’t. How is that important?” There was a glint of wariness in his eyes all of a sudden and Harry realised, much to his own surprise, that he didn’t like it.

So Harry decided that honesty might be his best bet here. “It isn’t. I just thought of how much magic has always been a part of your life, but still you’re in a Muggle flat. I figured that perhaps the people you live with would be-, you know.” 

“Well, they aren’t.” Malfoy basically was still glaring, but some of the wariness had dissipated. “They just happened to have a room available when I needed one.”

“When Zabini started the club?” Harry ventured.

Malfoy hesitated just a beat before answering: “No, I first had a room somewhere else.” He averted his gaze and Harry realised that, however curious this answer made him, Malfoy was not going to tell him more.

They just ate in silence for a while.

“So you usually eat with Nurie and her family?” 

Harry’d thought this subject should be safe, but he wasn’t entirely sure now, because Malfoy seemed quiet when he answered and Harry didn’t exactly know why. “No, not usually. Nurie asks me to, but I don’t think I should. She really doesn’t need another mouth to feed, and I-. Well, I’m in no position to, erm, make it worth her while.” 

Harry couldn’t do anything but stare for a moment. Okay, so Harry knew that the Ministry had taken everything the Malfoys had ever owned, so he did understand some of the reason why Malfoy wouldn’t be able to pay extra for food, although he didn’t think a bartender actually made that little money. But it was something else that was nagging him: Malfoy actually took the family he was living with into consideration: he didn’t eat with them, because he thought they didn’t have enough to spare, even though Nurie would probably allow him to eat for free.

“But you do have tea with them?” Harry inquired, once he was over the shock that Malfoy’s statement had apparently caused him.

“Sometimes. I don’t want to turn down Nurie’s hospitality all the time,” Malfoy answered, adding, as an afterthought: “She’s been really good to me.”

_”I’ve been trying to fill him up a bit, but my work’s obviously not done yet.”_

It was what Nurie had said. And Harry just felt a need to ask: “So what _do_ you usually have? You know, for dinner?” 

Malfoy shrugged. “Something simple.” He didn’t seem prone to explain any further, but Harry kept on looking at him questioningly, full Auror mode. “Oh, don’t give me that look.” Malfoy smiled a bit, obviously trying for a light tone. “Just a sandwich or something.”

***

Harry was flipping through the first out of the pile of casefiles he’d taken home with him for the night, hoping he could at least read through some of them, when he heard someone come in. When he looked up he saw Malfoy casually strolling into his living room. It was a sight Harry didn’t think he would ever really get used to.

Malfoy, in his house, just walking in as if that was completely normal.

He had insisted on doing the washing up, by magic of course, but now Malfoy was apparently done.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and he meant it. “Also for cleaning up the kitchen earlier today.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a beat, just going slightly pink. “You’re welcome.” 

Then he walked over to Harry’s loveseat - the one Harry himself never used, because he preferred the larger sofa - and he sat down on it in one gracefully fluid motion that Harry thought could only have come from the sort of upbringing Malfoy had obviously had.

And then Malfoy took out his phone. A Muggle mobile phone.

Okay, if Harry would never get used to Malfoy walking into his sodding living room, he was most certainly never ever going to get used to Malfoy using a _Muggle mobile phone_. With apparent ease.

“So you actually know how to use that thing?” Harry couldn’t help the question. 

Malfoy looked up, smiling in a way that on anyone else would have been teasing, but on Malfoy, Harry wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps it was taunting. “Yes, I mainly use it to text people. And to play rather stupid games. It really isn’t that hard to use. Not even for you.” 

Harry was still trying to find out how Malfoy meant this, how serious he was, when Malfoy rose, just as gracefully as he had sat down, and came to sit next to Harry. Close.

Harry flinched just a bit at the proximity, still not sure what to make of it, a whole life of distrust hard to dispel.

And Malfoy saw.

He had been reaching his phone forward, and Harry realised he’d probably just wanted to show him, but now he pulled it back again, getting up in the same movement, his face shuttered.

“I’m going up to bed.” And out he went, Harry could hear him take the stairs at an alarming pace.

And it suddenly struck Harry that Malfoy hadn’t been like that since he’d come here. Harry had expected him to be, had been waiting for Malfoy to revert back to the annoying behaviour he had shown in school - surprising Harry every time he didn’t - but he hadn’t. He’d been civil, helpful even and sometimes teasing, but never more than that. 

Okay, so this hadn’t gone well.

“Malfoy, are you awake?” Harry asked once he’d made it up the stairs too. 

“No, I’m not.” In different circumstances Malfoy’s answer could have been funny, but now his voice had a clipped quality to it that really didn’t bode well. “So leave.” 

But Harry wanted to do something, to say something to make this whole thing go away. The only problem was that he didn’t have a clue as to what.

“Malfoy?” But no answer came and after about five minutes of waiting fruitlessly, Harry went downstairs again.

Okay, so he’d have to be in one house with Malfoy for at least four more days. That couldn’t be too hard. Even in this situation Harry should still be able to make it work. He really should.

So Harry decided to go back to his casefiles, but he found he couldn’t focus enough to read them, or at least not enough to actually understand anything that was in there.

Fortunately that was when Harry’s Floo came to life, revealing Luna’s head.

“Hey, Harry,” she just said and he must have looked surprised, because she smiled and started to explain: “I promised Hermione I’d call in on you and this just seemed like the right time. Do you mind if I come through?” 

“Erm, no, of course not.” Harry didn’t really know what to think, though, whether to feel offended. Why had Hermione asked Luna to call in on him? True, besides Ron and Hermione, he didn’t really speak to an awful lot of people outside of the office, but there really wasn’t any need to. He spoke to the people he actually wanted to speak to and that was quite enough. 

Just last week he’d been talking to George for fuck’s sake. 

Who had owled him to come and try a new range of products for the shop. And who had subsequently showed up on Harry’s doorstep when Harry hadn’t come around to answering him straight away, taking Harry to the shop himself without preamble. 

Something George had actually never done before.

Right. Of course. So Ron had probably asked him to call in on Harry.

At least Luna had been completely upfront about _why_ she was here. 

***

Whatever the reason Luna was here, it was still really nice to have her over. Harry made them both tea and they talked, about how her and Neville’s plant nursery was doing - very well indeed - how Harry liked working with Terry Boot – not very well at all – and then, before Harry was even really aware of what was happening, the conversation just shifted to Malfoy and his forced presence in Harry’s life.

“I think it’s really nice you took Draco in.” Luna said, as if Malfoy was a stray puppy of some sort. Well, Harry knew for a fact that he was nothing of the kind at all. And what was she calling him _Draco_ for, anyway? What happened to Malfoy?

Luna continued: “You know I visited him in Azkaban a few times. Kingsley gave me permission.” Her voice was airy and light and sounded as if that wasn’t strange at all. 

“You did?” Harry’s voice was slightly incredulous, decidedly managing nothing like her airiness.

“Yes, we just talked. I wasn’t allowed to bring him anything, of course.” Harry knew that, as it was part of the rather harsh regime in Azkaban: few people were allowed to visit and no one was allowed to take anything to the prisoners there, not even cake on their birthday, but what concerned Harry more was that Luna had apparently _wanted_ to bring Malfoy something. She’d been held in his dungeons, for fuck’s sake.

That mystery solved itself, though. “He used to bring us food if he could, when I was at the Manor.” Luna, of course, had been a _prisoner_ at Malfoy Manor, but she was the only one of Harry’s friends that could refer to that as lightly as if it had been some kind of holiday trip. “And he stayed to talk, you know, if no one came calling for him,” she now continued. “I felt I should do the same for him. As you know Azkaban’s not a very nice place.”

“No, but at least in Azkaban no one actually gets killed or tortured anymore,” Harry blurted. Azkaban may not be very nice, may leave any person marred, but the Manor would definitely have been a whole lot worse.

“Well,” Luna’s voice was both light and thoughtful, “Draco did seem to have bruises most of the time.” 

Harry wanted to say something about Malfoy not having been used to doing things himself and bruising easily, what with that incredibly pale skin of his and all, but Harry found he didn’t really believe that himself. So he just didn’t say it, taking a sip of tea instead.

“I don’t think he wanted to talk about it, though,” Luna added. “He mostly tried to hide them.” 

“So, some of these bruises were in places where you could actually see them?” Harry heard the Auror in him ask next.

“Oh yes, but I think there were probably more of them. Clothes do tend to hide these kinds of things, you know.” 

“Did you tell anyone?” Harry felt his full Auror mode kick in now. 

“I did write to Robards about it. The guards of Azkaban are Aurors, aren’t they? But he never replied.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Luna watched him with a surprised frown. “Harry, it was just after the war. You were so busy doing other things.” And Harry knew she was right. He had been busy helping to chase down any remaining Death Eaters at the time, in the meantime trying to figure out how to manage his personal life, when everything he thought he had with Ginny had come crashing down.

He was still sort of working on that last one, actually. Certainly, he’d had dates, with both men and women, but none of those had really worked. For some reason they always tended to end up being about him - about _the_ Harry Potter - in one way or another and that just wasn’t what he was looking for. He wanted something better than that, something that was real.

***

It was some time after Luna had left and Harry had dutifully returned to his casefiles, that he was suddenly completely alert: someone, or something, had been trying to pass his Wards. 

He went to the front door quickly. The Fidelius Charm wasn’t on his house anymore - hadn’t been since the end of the war - but he still obviously had Wards in place: the normal ones and some more complex ones that would usually take someone a long time to break.

Harry noticed some of his standard Auror Wards had been broken now, though, but luckily he had also cast less common ones on his house, including some of the more recently developed Wards that not all of them used, or even knew about, yet. 

Whoever had wanted to come in, hadn’t succeeded. 

So Harry cast all of his Wards again, this time adding _all_ of the newer Auror strength spells he knew, just in case.


	4. Thursday

Harry woke up with a start, panting and sweating: he knew he’d had a nightmare again, the images still close. It had been about an Animagus this time, a white tiger that Harry had had to find. And he _had_ found it, but it had seemed ready to attack and Harry had cast a spell, hurting it, badly.

The Animagus had turned out to be an innocent girl, perhaps no more than 15 years of age.

Harry could still feel the remorse, the pain of his guilt, coursing through him, even though he knew it had all been a dream.

“It’s okay.” Malfoy’s voice was still gravelly from sleep, but soothing, too, like it had been the last time Harry’d had a nightmare. “It’s just a dream.” His touch was there as well, his hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

It was only then that Harry remembered Malfoy hadn’t been sleeping in his room anymore, that he’d apparently heard him in his own room across the hall and that he’d come here anyway. 

“You were angry with me,” Harry recollected and he knew his voice sounded slightly sulky, as if Malfoy had been to blame, as if Harry himself hadn’t cocked up first. Harry felt Malfoy shrug, but he didn’t say anything. 

So Harry turned towards him, sitting up, deciding to just tell him. “Look, I shouldn’t have-. I know you weren’t trying to-.” Well, he apparently decided to half-tell him. Why was it so hard to just say it?

Malfoy’s jaw clenched a bit. He was not quite meeting Harry’s gaze. “That’s okay too. I-. Well, we don’t actually get along, now do we?” There was a slight sadness to his tone and Harry looked at him, for the first time since all of this had begun he really looked.

In the soft glow of the orb that Malfoy had conjured up to provide light, he looked even paler than Harry remembered him and there were slight bags under his eyes, his skin there a faint purplish grey. 

He probably didn’t sleep much better than Harry did. 

“I think we’ve actually done rather well so far,” Harry answered. “We haven’t even hexed each other yet.” He smiled and it came out absolutely genuine.

Malfoy smiled right back. It was a slightly hesitant thing, though, and Harry couldn’t help but notice how soft he looked again: his hair all tousled and falling in his face in places he would never have allowed it to throughout the day.

Harry had probably been staring at Malfoy for too long, however, because Malfoy averted his gaze. “I should get back to bed.” 

“Don’t.” Harry touched Malfoy’s arm when he said it. It was just a light touch, barely there, but Malfoy sat back down and Harry realised Malfoy was shivering. By reflex he held his blanket up, scooting to the side to let Malfoy join him. There was no need for him to be cold.

Malfoy shot him a puzzled, almost pained look. 

So Harry explained: “It would be nice to have someone here. You know, just for a while. It would help.” And in the dim of night Harry realised it was only partly true. He would like someone there. It _would_ actually help with the nightmares, he knew, but more than that: he wanted _Malfoy_ to be there. This Malfoy, night-time Malfoy, the soft, gentle one, the one that seemed to understand him in a way not many other people did.

Malfoy had closed his eyes just for a moment and when he opened them again the pained look that had been there, had been replaced by something else, something that looked like resignation. “Well, if we’re going to do this, we might as well lie down.” His words could easily have been disdainful, but they weren’t, instead they held a softness that could only be there at night.

So Harry lay down and he felt Malfoy scoot closer, reaching his hand up to Harry’s.

Harry interlaced their fingers like he had a few nights prior and it felt as natural as it had with Ginny. 

He fell asleep almost immediately. 

***

The next morning was much like the morning before: Harry woke up to an otherwise empty bed and room, but this time he had actually slept very well throughout the latter part of the night. 

Then he took a shower, dressed himself and went to the kitchen, surprised that he found himself hoping that Malfoy had cooked him breakfast again, because, even though he wasn’t actually late today and could easily have gotten his tea and toast routine in, it would be so much easier to just sit and eat something nice. 

“Good morning,” Malfoy said it casually over his shoulder when Harry had made it into the kitchen. Malfoy was at the stove, frying, wearing the same pair of pyjamas he’d had on yesterday, his feet just as bare too. It made him look exposed in a way Harry didn’t quite know how to deal with, a way that he hadn’t had time to register yesterday morning when he’d been in too much of a hurry.

Now Malfoy turned, setting a plate of food down on the table and like much earlier that morning Harry noticed he looked tired. And rather skinny, thin, in his pyjamas that were obviously too wide for him. 

“You could actually answer, you know, when I wish you a good morning,” Malfoy chided, but without the malice that could have been there. 

Harry felt himself blush, telling Malfoy “Good morning,” quickly, before sitting down. “Aren’t _you_ going to have anything?” 

Malfoy looked a bit taken aback by the question. “I didn’t think-. You’re probably in a hurry, so I just assumed-.” 

Harry smiled at him, the sort of genuine smile he usually reserved for his friends. He really didn’t want to go into that now, though. “I’m not in that much of a hurry today.”

Malfoy hesitated just a moment, then got himself a plate of food and sat down, effortlessly graceful as always. Harry started to suspect he actually liked watching Malfoy move like that.

They mainly ate in silence, but it was comfortable and quiet rather than awkward and difficult. Harry realised he was almost sorry when he had to leave for work. 

And that he hadn’t felt like that in a startlingly long time. 

***

Harry had another really long day at work, in which they still didn’t find any trace of the Animagus, there were no new leads on the potions thieves and Terry was the same annoying arsehole as always. 

There had been exactly two things that had worked out today: Harry had finally finished the report on a case that had been solved at least two weeks ago and they had interviewed the only witness that had actually seen the unregistered Animagus today: of course, when they’d gone there to check, it hadn’t been there anymore. 

These, almost, positives, however, didn’t compare to everything that hadn’t really panned out. Being all the rest.

It hadn’t been a good day.

“So heading back to Malfoy?” Terry had been giving little pinpricks on the subject all day, so Harry should probably have seen it coming. 

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t say anything else. He’d decided he wasn’t going to waste his breath on Terry if he didn’t have to.

“You’d almost think you like going back to that stuck-up little shit.” It came out indignant, angry: Terry’s voice laced with venom. And that was when something inside of Harry snapped, he felt it give way almost physically. 

“Just so we’re clear: if I had to choose between going back to you or to him, it would be him anytime.” Right, so much for the not-wasting-his-breath on Terry part. And Harry knew he’d said it without thinking and probably a bit too loud, but he had meant every word. 

And Terry knew it, falling conspicuously silent, before starting to leave and mumbling something that sounded a lot like: “Have fun with that fucking Death Eater of yours,” under his breath.

Harry still felt his blood boil, when he made it to the Floo.

*** 

“Is anything the matter?” Malfoy was leaning in the doorway of Harry’s kitchen again, a look of concern on his face that up until now Harry had only seen directed at him at night. 

Harry knew he’d been chopping vegetables with much more force than was actually warranted, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. “No, not really. I’ll just be very happy when I get to work with Ron again.” 

Malfoy didn’t say anything for a beat, then concluded. “So it’s about your partner. Is it something you can share?” He didn’t add ‘with me’, but Harry heard it all the same.

“It’s just, well, I don’t get along with my current partner very well.” 

Malfoy smiled: it was small and hesitant. “I’d already got that impression.” Then he breathed in like he wanted to say something else, but he just clenched his jaw and didn’t. 

“Dinner’s almost done,” Harry changed the subject. “Could you lay the table?”

***

“Do you have an owl I could use?” Malfoy asked when he’d walked into the living room after he’d done the washing up. His voice was quiet, as if he wasn’t quite sure he could actually ask this sort of thing in his current situation. 

Harry nodded: after Hedwig he hadn’t owned an owl for a long time, but about four years ago he’d finally given in: deciding that communication would actually be a lot easier if he had one himself. “What for?” The question was out before he could think the better of it.

“I-. It’s my mother’s birthday today.” Harry could have known, of course - Malfoy had told him when he’d bought her a book a few days ago – but he hadn’t actually realised it was today.

Harry frowned. “Don’t you want to give it to her in person?”

Malfoy looked bemused for a very short moment, then seemed to stand up even straighter than he normally did. “Well, of course, why didn’t I think of that? Why don’t I just Floo out?” His every word was dripping with sarcasm and if Harry hadn’t looked any closer he would have thought the Malfoy he’d known in school had finally returned. 

Except Harry did look closer and that was the only reason he saw it: the flicker of a hurt almost like betrayal in Malfoy’s eyes, the shadow of a vulnerability that so far Harry had only seen at night.

It was the only reason why Harry didn’t focus on the sarcasm Malfoy’d used, but on _what_ he had said instead, asking: “Why didn’t you just ask me, you know, whether you could visit your mother?” 

For a moment Harry thought they were going to have the I-didn’t-think-you’d-let-me conversation they’d been having before, but then Malfoy spoke up again, the sting almost entirely gone from his words: “The only way I could visit my mother would be if you’d come with me and I thought you wouldn’t quite appreciate having to accompany me there.” 

Okay, well, put like that it actually did make some kind of sense: Harry really didn’t feel like voluntarily visiting Narcissa Malfoy, even if he did admire her for saving him in the Forbidden Forest all those years ago, but he also felt like he needed to make an effort here. “We could, though. I think you should be there on her birthday,“ adding, rather lamely, even to his own ears: “It’ll be no problem if we’re back later tonight. I don’t have to be anywhere tomorrow morning anyway: tomorrow and Saturday morning I’m off.” For some elusive reason Harry didn’t want Malfoy to feel guilty.

Malfoy just looked at him in utter confusion for a moment. “You’d do that?” 

Harry nodded much more convincedly than he actually felt.

“I’ll try and make it quick.” Malfoy said next, barely able to keep the happiness out of his voice, just before his face clouded over again: “Will you tell her-?”

Harry shook his head quickly. “Of course not. We’ll just tell her that we’re trying to work things out or something.” 

At least that wouldn’t be a complete lie. 

***

Malfoy had actually kept his word and made it an exceptionally quick visit, but it had still been awkward. Mrs Malfoy hadn’t commented on their explanation for visiting together, but she had kept shooting Harry quick glances that undoubtedly meant something, although Harry didn’t have a clue as to what. It had left him feeling decidedly unsettled. 

Then Mrs Malfoy had offered them tea with overly sweet pastries that she hadn’t had herself, while they’d conversed about nothing whatsoever, steering clear of anything even remotely tricky. 

All in all it had been a very civil, very stiff and very uncomfortable affair.

So Harry had been positively relieved when Malfoy had told his mother they should be leaving again, giving her a slightly restrained hug and promising to come back soon. Harry and Malfoy had left the cottage together, going back to the inn where they’d Floo-ed when they’d arrived.

“It’s a very nice cottage, really homey,” Harry said, just for something to say, although it was actually true. Narcissa Malfoy’s living room had been small, but very cosy and warm, something he hadn’t really expected.

“Yes, it is.” Malfoy looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Just don’t tell anyone.” There was a pleading note to his voice. “It’s just, well, the Ministry doesn’t actually know we own this cottage. This house didn’t show up on any of the lists of our possessions, because it’s hidden to most.” 

“You mean like by a Fidelius Charm?” 

Malfoy smiled a little. “I mean exactly like by a Fidelius Charm. I’m its Keeper and as you remember I’ve told you where we were going just before we got there.” 

Harry actually did remember, having thought that was a bit odd, but now it made complete sense and Harry felt overwhelmed by the implications of it all. Malfoy trusting Harry with something that must be so valuable to him almost felt like it meant something more, something important, even if it was Narcissa Malfoy’s birthday today.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry just simply answered.

“Good.” There was a silence for a beat, then Malfoy asked, smiling almost slyly all of a sudden: “So did I hear you say that you’re off tomorrow morning?” Harry nodded, not entirely sure where this could be going.

“Well, I think that would make for the perfect opportunity to celebrate,” Malfoy added. Harry shot him a quizzical look, not quite sure what they should be celebrating and Malfoy seemed to get that, a glint of humour in his eyes while explaining: “You know, that we haven’t hexed each other yet.”

Malfoy was still sporting that smile of his and Harry just smiled back in agreement: after the day he’d had he could most certainly use a drink, celebratory or otherwise.

And for some reason he suspected Malfoy was acutely aware of that.

***

They ended up in Bristol, the city nearest to where Narcissa Malfoy now appeared to be living, in a Muggle club that Malfoy seemed to know well. And the staff there actually knew him, too.

“Draco, darling, we really can’t have you two looking like that.” The man who’d said it was slightly older than Malfoy and Harry, suave and handsome and Harry noticed he felt strangely annoyed at how well he apparently knew Malfoy.

The man took them to an office space at the back of the club – it was probably his, since he obviously kept some of his clothes there – and he proceeded to give Harry a T-shirt. 

Harry wanted to comment, to say that he was already wearing a T-shirt, so what was the point, but he didn’t want to seem rude, so he put it on. Next he felt the light tingle of magic over his trousers which seemed to make them just slightly tighter. 

When Harry looked over at him, Malfoy was blushing a bit.

And Harry found it was extremely difficult to look away from Malfoy again, especially now he was slightly blushing and all. Malfoy had finished changing into a pair of jeans that looked expensive and a shirt of which the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, everything fitting him to perfection. 

Harry had to admit he looked undeniably good.

The man that had brought them here – and who had introduced himself as Claude in the meantime - looked at them both appraisingly. “Much better.” His gaze lingered on Malfoy just a bit longer than it had any reason to and he didn’t leave it at that, either, stepping in and loosening Malfoy’s collar by yet another button, then pulling him close and whispering something in his ear that Harry didn’t get. 

Then he let go. “Now go and have fun.” 

***

“Hey, Draco.” The girl behind the bar smiled at Malfoy, genuinely and open, and Harry realised she knew and actually liked him. “Your usual?” Malfoy nodded. “And your friend here?” she asked next, shifting her gaze to watch Harry.

“Just beer for me,” Harry answered. 

Then he looked over at Malfoy, who smiled at Harry’s undoubtedly slightly puzzled look. “I used to work here.”

Oh, that-, actually made sense. “Before you started working for Zabini.” Harry suddenly understood. 

“Yes, when I’d served my sentence I-, well, Claude was very nice to me.” Harry felt something inside him twist in an uncomfortable knot for some reason, but he found he did actually understand how Malfoy would have ended up here, outside the wizarding world, mixing drinks, because after Azkaban, well, he wouldn’t have been particularly welcome anywhere wizarding. But he wouldn’t have had any Muggle diplomas, either. 

Harry had never actually given any thought as to what that would be like at all.

“Here.” The bartender now set their drinks down: plain lager for Harry and for Malfoy a whiskey without any of the rocks that Harry normally associated with the drink. When Harry tried to pay, hoping he had enough Muggle money on him to be able to, the bartended shook her head and smiled. “No, we’re not allowed to charge him anything,” she said, indicating Malfoy with her head, “Claude won’t have it.” 

***

They were a few drinks in and standing to the side of the main dance floor. Malfoy had cast a Silencing Charm that made the sounds of the club dim enough to be able to actually talk to each other and they had been talking about all sorts of things, but nothing of any importance, when Malfoy suddenly broached the subject: “You really don’t have to, you know, defend me to anyone.” 

Harry’s brain felt fuzzy and didn’t seem able to catch up, so Malfoy explained: “I mean to your Auror partner. I know he doesn’t like me much, but, well, I can’t really blame him.” Harry watched Malfoy in surprise, close enough to see the clouds in his grey eyes. “And as much as I appreciate what you’re doing, I-, it’s most definitely not worth losing a partner over.” 

Silence stretched uncomfortably between the two of them for too long, as Harry was struggling to find the right words to say. 

And then the moment passed and Malfoy started walking towards the dance floor. “Care to join me?” he asked over his shoulder. His voice sounded indifferent, like none of what he’d just said actually mattered, but it still left Harry at a loss somehow. 

So Harry shook his head at Malfoy’s question decidedly feeling that something important had just slipped through his fingers, gone like the sand in an hour glass. 

***

Harry watched Malfoy as he stood on the dance floor of the club, his body easily moving to the beat with the same fluid grace that he used when walking, or sitting down, or anything else really. Malfoy’s eyes had been open at first, but as he had gradually let the music take over, they had closed. 

It was like he was giving in completely, to the music, the beat, the here. And it was absolutely enthralling.

Then Harry saw another man position himself behind Malfoy, snaking his arms around Malfoy’s waist slowly as he danced, his body mimicking perfectly what Malfoy was doing and it just didn’t sit right. It was annoying in a way that Harry couldn’t quite explain. 

Then Malfoy moved one of his own hands down, holding the man’s arm in place.

And suddenly Harry decided he’d had enough. He swallowed the rest of his beer down in one and made it to the dance floor without a second thought. The way he bumped into the man behind Malfoy was probably a bit too much, but Harry found he didn’t care. This week Malfoy was his responsibility and he’d be damned if Malfoy was going to pull anyone now. That just wouldn’t do. He was practically in custody for fuck’s sake.

Harry had wanted to get Malfoy off the dance floor, but when Malfoy spotted him, he gave him an easy, but slightly surprised smile, taking both Harry’s hands. Then he turned and silently slid Harry’s hands over to his waist, just putting them there, nothing more. It was as surprising as it was apparently welcome: Harry didn’t back away. 

When Malfoy started to move again, his back to Harry, Harry’s arms were securely on his hips. And Harry let himself feel it: the pounding, incessant beat of the music, the rhythm that Malfoy moved to as if he was made for it and Harry started to move with him, his hands high enough now that he could feel the shift of Malfoy’s obliques under his skin.

And now when Malfoy slid one hand down, finding Harry’s, Harry let it happen. And he even liked it when Malfoy intertwined their fingers like they sometimes did at night.

***

They were both more than a little drunk when they tumbled out of Harry’s Floo. Malfoy was so unstable that he almost launched himself into a chair and Harry grabbed on, glad to have a way of steadying himself a bit in the process too. 

They were laughing.

And suddenly they were close.

And Harry’s hands were on Malfoy’s waist again, Malfoy’s eyes a beautiful, silvery grey.

And his hand was cupping Harry’s cheek.

And his lips: they were so soft. So soft against Harry’s.

Harry closed his eyes, savouring the taste of whiskey that still lingered, muzzily noticing that he did actually like whiskey this way, sweet and slightly bitter on the soft of Malfoy’s lips. And that he really liked the way Malfoy kissed now, pulling him in close with an urgency that Harry had never felt with anyone else.

And Harry realised he didn’t want to let go. 

So he decided he didn’t have to, settling one hand firmly in Malfoy’s hair and deepening their kiss.

Malfoy kissed back like his life depended on it.


	5. Friday

When Harry woke, parched and with a pounding headache, he registered the heat of another body close to his immediately. He opened his eyes slowly, the grey morning light filtering through the curtains just enough to see Draco’s face. Draco’s eyes were still closed, long blond lashes to pale skin and Harry couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked in this state of complete relaxation.

And then he remembered.

They had kissed. And then they’d made it upstairs, to his bed and … . Harry quickly lifted the bedsheets skimming his body. Okay, he was fully dressed and so was Draco apparently. So, they hadn’t actually … . Good.

And then it hit Harry, hard, because it wasn’t like he hadn’t _wanted_ to sleep with Draco. No, Harry noticed he really wouldn’t have minded, quite the contrary actually, but he wouldn’t have wanted to do it and _not remember_. Which was why it was good they hadn’t. 

It was a very strange realisation to have in the early morning with a horrible headache and Draco still sleeping peacefully beside him. Okay, Harry had known he had started to like Draco better of late, but going from that to this definite, obvious, physical attraction. Well, it was something that would likely take some getting used to. 

That’s when Harry heard Draco groan, his face scrunching in a way that looked both uncomfortable and entirely adorable. Okay, so the getting-used-to bit was apparently not going to take too much time if ‘adorable’ came to mind this easily. When thinking of Draco Malfoy of all people.

“Potter?” Draco sounded surprised, like he didn’t quite get it yet. 

Harry could see the exact moment that he did, though, for Draco sat up straight in one movement, obviously regretting it immediately and putting his hand to his, undoubtedly also pounding, head.

When Harry smiled, it probably was way too soft. “I’m going to get us some hangover potion. I should have some in the bathroom.” 

*** 

When Harry returned to his bedroom, Draco wasn’t really sitting _in_ bed anymore, but on the edge, his feet firmly planted on the floor as if he was actively trying to ground himself. Harry gave him the potion he’d procured from the bathroom and Draco took it. 

“Thanks.” Draco’s voice still sounded gravelly, like it always did when he’d just woken. He downed the potion and Harry could see that it was working, making the creases of pain in his face disappear. 

Draco evaded looking at Harry, though, quite purposely not meeting Harry’s gaze. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said.

So he up and left, leaving Harry puzzled. Didn’t Draco remember last night? He’d been pretty sloshed after all, so perhaps he didn’t remember and was ashamed of having been that pissed. Or he might have remembered just fine, being ashamed of _what_ exactly? Them kissing?

Harry didn’t know and decided to leave it for now, waiting for the bathroom door to open and close for a second time, then picking himself up off the bed and making it to the shower. 

He stayed in there for a degenerately long time and then some, feeling the water sluice over his body, warm, comforting. And _predictable_. He wasn’t sure if he was willing to get out of the shower at all today.

Eventually he had to, though. He had to work the afternoon shift after all, so he towelled himself off, slinging the towel on his hips afterwards. 

And then the door opened.

Harry’d been on his way out and suddenly Malfoy was so close that Harry could see how his pupils dilated a bit, small pools of black in his silver. Malfoy didn’t say anything for a beat, then averted his gaze. “I just came to get my clothes out, I thought you would have finished by now.”

Harry followed his gaze: the clothes Malfoy’d worn the day before in fact lying, neatly folded, on top of the cabinet. Harry hadn’t noticed them. 

Malfoy just walked in and retrieved them without acknowledging Harry’s presence any further, making it out the door without another word.

***

When Harry had dressed and got to his kitchen to have lunch, because he _would_ need to leave for work soon, Malfoy wasn’t there. He’d apparently been there, though, because there was a full fry up under a Stasis Charm on Harry’s kitchen table, but Malfoy himself was conspicuously absent.

Harry had to remind himself that eating on his own was normal. He’d done it tons of times. It shouldn’t matter at all that there was someone else in the house who clearly wasn’t joining him.

***

Work hadn’t been so bad today: Terry had called in sick – Harry didn’t want to think too hard about why that could be – and Harry had been paired with Lisa Turpin, who had been called in to replace Terry for a few days. 

It had been an absolute relief: Lisa didn’t comment on Malfoy being in Harry’s house at all and at first Harry’d thought she might not know, but then they’d been talking about the potions thefts and she had broached the subject. She hadn’t said anything demeaning about Malfoy, however, just stating that she was glad that maybe Malfoy would be able to shed some light on the case when he’d retrieved his memory, because the whole thing still didn’t seem to be going anywhere without it. 

She was right of course. 

And she was a marvel to work with too: clever enough, but also having an acute sense of human decency, something Terry quite obviously lacked. 

So Harry and Lisa actually made some progress on the Animagus case: getting a more accurate idea of the area it seemed to be moving in. It was an area with a lot of mostly abandoned warehouses and the part of it they’d covered that afternoon hadn’t really revealed much, but for the first time Harry felt like they were at least getting closer.

Late in the afternoon they’d been called away from the warehouse they’d been surveying, however, to investigate a theft, no potions this time, but something important all the same: a wizard’s wand had been stolen.

No one had actually seen anything - of course they hadn’t - but when Harry and Lisa had talked to the victim for the umpteenth time, he had reluctantly told them that the Firebolt he proudly kept in his living room wasn’t actually his. It was his daughter-in-law’s. And the daughter-in-law had very definitely not given the wizard permission to put it on show in his living room. 

From then on in it had been easy: the daughter-in-law had apparently figured she could take the wizard’s wand in exchange for her Firebolt. So when the Firebolt had been returned, she’d given back the wand.

All this had taken rather a lot of time, though, so when Harry finally got home, his afternoon shift had officially already ended well over two hours ago.

He found Malfoy in his kitchen, definitely not looking amused. He looked Harry over a few times, quickly, before spitting: “Well, you took your bloody time getting here.” He sounded angry, but for some reason he didn’t quite look it: his eyes softer than they should be, even though his face was flushed and he’d obviously worried his lower lip enough for it to show. 

Harry didn’t know _what_ exactly Malfoy looked like.

He did know it somehow suited him, though. Which made it inconveniently difficult to react to what Malfoy had said, so Harry just went with a simple: “I needed to finish something at work.” 

“Couldn’t you have-?” Malfoy started, but didn’t finish, his voice still angry and rough. And Harry suddenly realised he looked a bit lost for some reason.

“I’ll start on dinner.” Harry plainly said next. He didn’t really think this was about dinner, but he wasn’t sure what it actually _was_ about, either.

“Yes, dinner. Very important, of course.” Malfoy’s voice had levelled out completely now and so had his face.

He’d left the kitchen before Harry’d had a chance to say anything else.

***

When they’d had dinner and Malfoy had come into the living room - sitting down on the love seat as he usually did, but still with an icy air around him that threatened to freeze the house from the inside out - Harry somehow felt he had to make amends. 

“So how does that Muggle phone thing of yours actually work?” he decided to ask, while plonking down on the armrest of Malfoy’s seat. 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him for a brief moment, while he managed to look wary, puzzled and slightly pained all at the same time. There was a beat of silence. Then he proceeded to take out his phone.

***

Malfoy seemed to know exactly how his Muggle phone worked and he explained elaborately. Harry knew he wouldn’t remember half of it, but it was nice all the same. While he was explaining Malfoy’s eyes lit up, pure liquid silver, and his enthusiasm, especially for something so completely Muggle, held a surprising attraction all its own.

“Do you still use it a lot? I mean since you’re working in the wizarding world again?” 

Malfoy considered him for a moment, apparently not entirely sure how Harry had meant this question. “Yes, actually,” he then answered, “As I obviously _live_ with Muggles. And, well, I still regularly venture out into the Muggle world.” He paused, apparently not sure whether he should elaborate, then deciding not to, falling silent. 

“You must have missed it, though, being in the wizarding world,” Harry said, remembering Malfoy’s family and all that pure-blood crap he’d grown up with. Malfoy just gave him a long stare, something cold in his eyes all of a sudden that Harry really didn’t like, but that he didn’t know how to undo. So he just decided to ask what he’d wanted to anyway: “Is that why you started to work for Zabini?” 

Malfoy frowned in a way that could only mean he thought Harry was being rather dim-witted. “I started to work for Blaise, because he asked me, because he’s a friend and he asked. Surely you can understand that.” 

Harry did, he really did. It was just …: “So you didn’t _want_ to come back? You know, to the wizarding world?”

Now Malfoy regarded Harry like he was actually completely bonkers. “No, not particularly. Even though I definitely deserve all the-.” He broke off mid-sentence just adding: “Well, you know, from people like your partner.” 

It took Harry a slight moment to process: ah, Terry and his stupid fucking opinion.

“Yes, and _you_ have seen that I don’t agree,” Harry defended, knowing he meant it even more now than he had previously. “You’ve served your time. That should be enough.” Harry said it with utter conviction, making Malfoy’s face do something complicated that Harry didn’t really understand.

“Should it?” Malfoy just said, his tone somewhere between icy cold and, well, sad, tired. 

Harry felt an alarming need to touch him. Which he valiantly ignored, though, knowing it would probably startle Malfoy away. “Yeah,” Harry just said instead, “it should.”

Malfoy watched him for a beat, his grey eyes searching as if he wanted to detect the lie behind Harry’s words. 

There was none.

So Malfoy averted his gaze again, just like that, leaving Harry to feel its loss somehow.

***

The owl that flew into Harry’s closed window later that evening was a sleek white bird that was definitely not a Ministry owl.

When Harry opened the parchment the owl had carried, it turned out to be in handwriting Harry didn’t recognise. 

He unfolded the rest of it with care, skipping to its signature immediately.

_Blaise Zabini_

Okay, probably not a threat then. Harry read the short note curiously.

“It’s Blaise’s, isn’t it?” Harry found Malfoy standing next to him. _He_ obviously had recognised the handwriting. 

“Yeah,” Harry acknowledged, “he asks me whether you could perhaps come into work for a few hours tonight. Apparently someone couldn’t come to work tonight because they had a sick child and Zabini had to send another colleague home because he was having an actual fever. You’d just have to work for two hours: twelve to two. He says he’s got everything covered from two on.” Harry watched Malfoy. “Do you want to fill in?” It was a genuine question. If Malfoy actually wanted to do this, Harry wasn’t going to stand in his way. 

And Malfoy knew, nodding, albeit slowly, tentatively. “You’d have to come, I take it,” he stated and they both knew it was true, but they also both knew Harry was not going to back out of this one.

“Yeah, if you’d like to go,” Harry smiled, already knowing Malfoy’s answer. “Anything I should or shouldn’t wear?” Harry made it sound like a joke of sorts, but he also vividly remembered the whole clothing thing in the club they’d been to yesterday. 

No need to repeat any of that again.

***

Eventually Malfoy chose Harry’s outfit: a pair of jeans that Harry never wore, because they fitted him a bit too snugly and a T-shirt that Ginny had given him what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

Malfoy himself was dressed in a pair of expensive looking, black trousers that he needed to take in a bit at the waist, a beautifully crisp, white shirt - sleeves rolled up to the elbows again - and a grey waistcoat with black pinstripes that brought out the colour of his eyes. It was the first time Malfoy had looked like that since he’d been in Harry’s house - apart perhaps from that first day when he’d come from Blaise’s club - and Harry found himself staring entirely against his will.

Malfoy saw, because of course he did, but instead of making some haughty comment on how he dressed with style - and Harry didn’t - he just said: “I haven’t got many of these left, but Blaise’s club is not a place to look-, well, less than your very best.”

And it should have been clear to Harry straight away, it really should have been, but somehow it took Harry time to figure it out: these were the clothes Malfoy _used_ to wear, before the trials, before the Malfoy family had been forced to pay. 

For some reason it made Harry’s stomach lurch unpleasantly.

***

That night the club was even busier than when Harry had been here to interrogate Malfoy. Zabini himself was working the bar and Harry felt indignation tug at him. Why have Malfoy come in if Zabini could do it himself? It was something Malfoy obviously noticed: “On Friday nights we always work the bar in twos. It’s almost impossible to do it on your own. Next to that Blaise doesn’t usually do any bartending, he prefers not to and I suppose that’s actually for the best most of the time.” He cocked his head, smiling slightly. “Although he seems to be doing a rather good job at the moment.” 

Zabini was mixing a drink, suspended, while balancing a glass in his hand trying to fill it with beer. 

That was when he looked up and saw Malfoy. “Get your arse up here,” he mouthed, apparently losing his focus enough for the mixed drink to fall out of the air. It didn’t fall far, though, because Malfoy whipped out his wand and caught it with a neat spell while walking to the bar, all elegance, ease and confidence. Harry found he had a hard time looking away. 

***

Harry had thought it would be utterly boring, just sitting at the bar waiting for Malfoy’s shift to end, but it wasn’t, not really. The deep, rather monotonous pounding of the bass made his mind drift in a rhythm of its own, while his gaze was held by Malfoy, whom he, of course, was supposed to keep an eye on.

Like the first night Harry had seen him work, it was quite clear that Malfoy knew exactly what he was doing, mixing a drink while pouring another and talking to people easily at the same time, smiling at them as if they were the only people in the world. 

And, as Zabini had told Harry that first night, the mostly young crowd that frequented this club seemed to like this Malfoy, the graceful, talkative, but still rather sharp-edged one. And, of course, there were his looks: people undoubtedly liked those too, because, well, Malfoy was extremely easy on the eye. Harry could admit to that much now.

“Thank you.” This was the second time this week that Harry was startled out of his thoughts by Blaise Zabini and he rather sullenly noted he shouldn’t let it become a habit.

“For what?” Harry asked, although he did have a pretty good idea.

“For allowing Draco to come in today.” Harry noticed Zabini must have cast a Silencing Charm, because the incessant sound of the bass had decreased considerably and it was surprisingly easy to hear him. “And for not letting them take him into custody.” Zabini’s eyes were serious. “You know, because Azkaban-, well, let’s just say it was no picnic.”

And just like that Harry asked: “Do you know-? Was he abused, there, in Azkaban?”

Zabini considered him for a moment. “I think you should ask _him_ that.” A silence followed that Zabini eventually filled with: “You know I wasn’t even allowed to visit him there.” 

Harry nodded: that was how it worked. “And when he got out?” Harry found he was strangely curious.

“That was hard.” Harry saw how Zabini was deliberating with himself, probably trying to decide how much he could tell. “He was lucky to find someone who gave him a job bartending eventually.”

“Claude,” Harry heard himself say. 

Zabini watched him in surprise for a moment, so Harry decided to add: “Yesterday evening we went to the Muggle club he used to work at.” 

The surprise on Zabini’s face grew into something like amusement. “Did you now? Really?” It came with a smile that was so Slytherin it made Harry uncomfortable. It was like Zabini knew something Harry wasn’t privy to, but that Harry should have known all the same. “But yes, Claude. He’s helped him in more ways than one.” 

“Are they more than-?” The question surprised Harry himself, making him stop short when he caught it.

It didn’t seem to shock Zabini, though, because he just smiled _that_ smile at him again, apparently knowing full well what Harry hadn’t actually asked: “Well, no, at least not anymore. Haven’t been for a long time actually.” For some reason that settled something inside of Harry, although he knew he really had no right to feel that way after just one night of drunken kisses. Certainly not since neither of them had in fact mentioned those kisses again. Still Harry felt his face relax, letting go of a tension, he hadn’t even noticed had been there. “Claude was very patient with Draco, though, giving him time to learn everything he needed to know,” Zabini added.

Zabini watched Harry again, pondering now, not smiling. Then he apparently decided to continue: “It was quite commendable, really, because Draco didn’t even know how to handle Muggle money at the time. He had to learn fast, though: Narcissa wasn’t well and she needed-.” Here Zabini abruptly stopped talking as if he was afraid he might overstep the line of what he was allowed to tell.

Narcissa had been quite well when Harry had seen her, so she must have been treated. 

But she probably still wasn’t employed anywhere. 

“Malfoy sends her money,” Harry concluded. 

Zabini just nodded: “Her cottage still needs a lot of work.” Then he suddenly shut his mouth as if now he’d really said something he shouldn’t have.

The cottage, of course.

Harry smiled at him reassuringly. “We’ve visited Mrs Malfoy on her birthday yesterday. I’ve seen it. The cottage.” Zabini’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, while Harry added: “It seemed okay, though.”

Then Zabini smiled: “You’ve probably just seen the living room.”

Next he eyed the queue that was forming at the bar. “I think I should get back. But Potter …” Harry waited, but for a moment Zabini was silent, until he said: “Be careful. Draco-” 

That, however, was the moment Malfoy called out to him: “Get over here, you lazy sod.” And just like that Zabini was gone, making his way back to the bar. 

***

“You’re really good at it. You know, bartending,” Harry said while he and Malfoy were walking back to their Apparition point. 

Malfoy smiled at him smugly. “Of course I am.”

“Yeah, of course you are.” Harry couldn’t help but smile back, not bothering to be riled up by Draco Malfoy any longer. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be, though.”

Malfoy gave him a glance that was almost shy and it was so unusual that Harry wasn’t at all sure it had been there in the first place. 

“Me neither,” Malfoy conceded quietly. 

Then he put his hand on Harry’s arm for him to Apparate them both back to Grimmauld Place. So Harry did, feeling a strong need to keep touching Malfoy, to hold on to him slightly longer than was necessary: it was just so nice to feel Malfoy’s warm skin under his touch, to have him so close Harry would easily have been able to pull him in.

For a kiss.

If he’d ventured to do so. 

Which he obviously didn’t.

So eventually Harry let go and they watched each other for just a moment longer. 

Until Malfoy stated he was going up to bed, his words echoing loudly in the otherwise dark and empty house.


	6. Saturday

Harry knew he’d woken up to another nightmare in the middle of the night: his mind mercifully catching up with the fact that Malfoy was sitting beside him once again, rather uncomfortably perched on the small strip of bed that was available next to Harry, his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Malfoy was very much alive. Not lying near dead and soaked in a cocktail of dangerous potions in an apothecary, where in Harry’s dream he’d been working. 

Harry had dreamt the potions thieves had struck again, but this time they’d come while Malfoy was in the shop, doing his job. They’d entered silently like ghosts, so fast that Malfoy hadn’t had much of a chance of defending himself.

And Harry hadn’t been there: only picking up on Malfoy’s distress signal when it was already too late.

“So, did Blaise have anything interesting to say?” Real, very-much-alive Malfoy now asked. His voice had this gravelly quality to it again that Harry had actually come to like and Harry now recognised what Malfoy was trying to do: getting Harry to think of something that wasn’t his dream, to distract him from it.

“Yes, actually. But I’m not telling you all of it.” Harry smiled, almost despite himself. “He did seem really surprised you’d taken me to that Muggle club of yours, though.” Harry’s tone was light, but even in his current, still slightly sleep-addled state he remembered it was important somehow.

“Yes, well, I don’t usually take anyone there. Blaise has obviously been, but no one else, really.” Malfoy’s voice sounded unguarded and quiet, just barely breaking the silence of night around them. “I-. I feel at ease there, safe, if that makes sense.”

Harry nodded, because to him it made perfect sense: wanting to be somewhere where people didn’t see your past, just you, nothing else. He understood all of it. And Harry abruptly realised what it had meant that Malfoy had shared this place with him, that he had willingly taken Harry to this club that was so important to him that he’d only shared it with one close friend.

So Harry just watched Malfoy for a moment, facing him fully now and he felt himself fill with something soft that he wasn’t able to put words to. So he lifted his hand, not quite knowing where he was going to put it yet, until Malfoy caught it in his, interlacing their fingers. “Let’s try and get some sleep.” 

***

When Harry woke up the next morning it was light already. And the bed wasn’t empty, the heavy weight of Malfoy’s arm having ended up on his waist somehow.

So Malfoy was still there: even though he hadn’t been drunk, he hadn’t left for his own room, like he normally did.

Like always after he’d had a nightmare: Harry’d fallen asleep with his back to Malfoy, but sometime throughout the night he’d apparently turned, ending up facing Malfoy who was still fast asleep, if his soft, even breathing was anything to go by. 

The sun was out today and although its light was rather cold and wintery, it still managed to give Malfoy’s face a softness that was all too appealing. He really _was_ very attractive like this: relaxed, strands of his blond hair falling into his face, lighting up almost like silver in this light.

Harry sighed, deciding to get out of bed before he would do anything stupid.

He got up very slowly - first moving Malfoy’s arm to the mattress carefully, not wanting to wake him up just yet - then getting himself off the bed in slow, cautious movements. 

Malfoy was still asleep when Harry had taken his shower and gotten dressed.

*** 

“Good morning.” It was definitely Malfoy’s voice and Harry turned from the stove where he’d been frying his yet unrivalled bacon.

“Good morning,” he shot back, glancing at the clock, then smiling because he couldn’t quite help himself. It was just before twelve.

“Well, technically it _is_ still morning, albeit just for a few more minutes,” Malfoy smirked.

“Technically, yes,” Harry said, turning and putting the first plate of breakfast - or lunch or whatever it was - down where he knew Malfoy would be sitting, then proceeding to get his own plate of food. 

“I’ll have to leave in about three quarters of an hour, so there’s still plenty of time,” Harry said next, sitting down.

Somehow it apparently mattered that Malfoy wouldn’t feel guilty about getting downstairs this late.

Malfoy just watched him for a moment. “Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere and for some reason it seemed to hold much more than just a ‘thank you’ for the food.

“No problem.” Harry regarded Malfoy, hoping he had managed to convey in those two words how much he’d meant them. Because he had. 

And then it hit him in full force: tomorrow Malfoy would leave again.

The thought didn’t even leave him half as pleased as he’d expected.

***

Working with Lisa Turpin had been as much of a pleasure as the day before and although Harry still very much looked forward to being with Ron again on Monday, working with Lisa was remarkably easy too. 

They had been on the Animagus’ tail all afternoon and were currently combing through one particular warehouse, because they were fairly certain the Animagus’ human form was living there somewhere. 

Then, suddenly, a Patronus. Well, it wasn’t even a real, corporal Patronus, just a whisp of almost translucent smoke, but it did speak: “The library. I’m-“ That was all, before the voice broke, apparently not able to say anything else.

It had been Draco’s voice.

It had unmistakably been Draco’s voice and Harry felt something clammy clench his heart. 

Fuck!

Harry just told Lisa he had to go home. Now. And left. 

***

Harry Apparated straight home, but not into the library, because he didn’t know what would be waiting for him there. So instead, when he’d fully materialised again, he found himself in the mostly disused parlour next to the library, where he cast an Auror strength Disillusionment Charm on himself. Then he proceeded into the library. 

Most of it was dark, but there were voices, whispering urgently.

“ … not due back for hours. This one will have bled out by then.” Harry was close enough to hear and see them now, illuminated by the light of just three candles. There were four people. Four. And Draco had been alone, not aware anyone would come after him.

Harry moved closer, his Auror training the only reason he kept going slow enough not to be heard. 

It was then – in the candlelights’ eerie shadows - that he saw him: Draco. He was lying on the floor, ghostly pale. A pool of blood slowly forming next to him, seeping from a large gash at his side. 

Harry only realised he’d been transfixed on Draco, just lying there, when he heard the sound of one Apparition, then two: the attackers were leaving, so he dropped his Disillusionment Charm, immediately casting an _Expelliarmus_ that shouldn’t have worked on two people at once, but still did. The look of utter surprise on the assailants’ faces when their wands flew easily into Harry’s hands, was quite satisfactory.

“But your shift hasn’t ended yet,” one of his very unwelcome guests said, addressing Harry, sounding completely incredulous. “We checked,” he added. 

Harry didn’t even answer him, just feeling a seething anger course through him, all of which he channelled into his casting. 

_"Incarcerous."_ Harry’s spell was meant to bind the two intruders, of course, but instead of normal ropes, cables the size of full-grown Boa Constrictors sprang out, binding the men quickly and unrelentingly.

“What-?” one of the men started, but Harry really didn’t want to hear, gagging the both of them with an impatient, wandless spell in one go. 

He crossed the space to where Draco was lying in a heartbeat.

Draco’s eyes were open. 

“That was quite the display of power there, Potter.” His voice was worryingly quiet, but his eyes held amusement, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Do you always go about your job like this?”

“No, just on this occasion.” Harry couldn’t help but smile and it was entirely too soft, but, well, Draco was alive. Harry hadn’t realised how much he’d apparently doubted that.

He cautiously knelt next to Draco. 

“Don’t take me to hospital,” Draco’s voice sounded brittle and strained, as if it took a great deal out of him just to say it. “It-, I-, I wouldn’t feel safe.” 

Harry considered him for a moment. “I won’t, not unless I really have to,” he said. He had to admit that he didn’t know whether Draco would be safe at St Mungo’s, either, and asking the Aurors to guard him there, would probably just end in a discussion about taking Draco into custody again.

So Harry looked at Draco’s wound himself, carefully examining it as best he could. Then, finding that at least it seemed to be a clean cut, he started to cast healing spells. Every Auror had to learn the basic ones, of course, but Harry had never been particularly good at them. Now he seemed to be doing rather well for a change, though: stopping the bleeding and neatly stitching Draco’s skin together.

When he looked up at Draco’s face again, his eyes were closed. 

Fuck.

“We’ll need Dittany and Blood Replenishing Potion,” Harry forced out, hoping that Draco would be able to hear, that he was alright. Draco didn’t answer.

So Harry just proceeded to look for the things he needed in his Auror robes as both were standard issue. It didn’t take him long to find them.

Next Harry shuffled himself into position, carefully lifting Draco’s head so it’d be resting in Harry’s lap, then lifting it a bit more, unstoppering the vial of Blood Replenisher with his other hand. “Draco, can you drink this? Draco?” Harry’s voice was trembling quite involuntarily. “Draco?” Harry found he didn’t want to think at all at this moment.

Then Draco’s eyelids moved, they didn’t actually open, but they moved. It was as if Draco had to put in a lot of effort to open them and wasn’t quite able to do so yet. 

Until he was. And Harry was suddenly faced with the clouded grey of his eyes. 

Harry decided not to let it distract him, though. “Drink this,” he repeated, holding the vial to Draco’s lips. And Draco did, swallowing with some difficulty, but drinking all the same. Harry smiled with pure relief.

When the vial was empty Harry threw it aside without looking, watching Draco instead, seeing colour slowly return to his cheeks a bit. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much.” 

Draco’s voice contradicted his words a little, though, and Harry watched him for a beat before getting the other vial to treat his healing wound with Dittany: the cut a long, red mark now.

“This will hurt,” Harry said. Draco nodded, visibly bracing himself. When Harry put the essence on his wound, Draco just clenched his jaws, starting to relax again some moments later.

And Harry noticed just how exhausted he looked. “I think you should probably get some sleep.” 

That was when the door to the library opened, though, and Harry’s wand was in his hand before he could even think about it.

“Harry, your Wards have been taken down.” It was Lisa Turpin bringing some of their Auror colleagues, but fortunately no Terry Boot. Harry brought his wand down immediately. “We were basically able to walk right in,” Lisa continued. 

Then she saw the two men in full body binds. “I thought, when you had to leave so abruptly, that you could probably use some help, but I see that everything’s completely under control here.” She smiled a little, then focussed her attention on Draco, understanding dawning suddenly. “They were after you.” 

Draco nodded, just once. 

Harry answered her. “They tried to kill him. If he hadn’t been able to send that Patronus, I certainly wouldn’t have found him in time. It’s-“ Harry swallowed thickly, “It’s what they’d been counting on.” 

“So you really must know something important, something that is incriminating enough for those thieves to lash out,” Lisa concluded, her eyes on Draco again.

Draco shrugged. “I suppose.” 

“And they must employ an excellent curse breaker,” Harry suddenly realised, “because they apparently broke through all my Auror strength wards.”

Lisa considered him. “Which ones did you cast?” 

“All of them. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but last Wednesday someone tried to break in. They didn’t succeed, but I refreshed all my wards all the same, adding all the newer ones just to be sure.” 

Lisa really looked concerned and it was exactly how Harry felt. They just watched each other like that for a moment, apparently coming to the same conclusion. 

“You should go into hiding.” Eventually it was Lisa who’d said it. “Don’t tell me where, don’t tell anyone.”

Harry nodded. “And I think it’s probably best if Ron and Hermione don’t go home when they get back tonight either. Since Hermione’s the only one who can retrieve Draco’s memory,” Harry finished Lisa’s conclusion.

***

So that’s how Harry and Draco ended up in a Muggle hotel. It wasn’t completely high end but still posh enough for Harry to feel slightly uncomfortable. He thought that Draco might like it, though, and, well, the money was hardly a problem. Even if the Ministry never paid him back, Harry had more of it than he could ever spend in a lifetime.

Granted, the woman at the reception desk had been slightly taken aback when Harry had paid the full sum in cash, but he couldn’t care less. Harry didn’t have a credit card, but he did always keep Muggle money in the house, a rather large stash of it actually, mainly for cases like this one, because he _was_ an Auror and sometimes things happened.

“Now we just have to get into contact with Hermione before she gets back,” Harry stated.

“We could use my phone.” Draco sounded slightly reluctant, almost shy. 

“But,” Harry knew Hermione had a Muggle phone to keep into contact with her parents, “wouldn’t we need a number?” 

“Well …, I might actually have hers. If she hasn’t changed it, that is.” Draco sounded even more quiet now and Harry could only watch him in utter surprise, so Draco apparently felt obliged to explain. “I got myself cursed about six or seven years ago, badly enough to have to seek medical attention. She eventually treated me.” 

“But she was training to be a Memory expert?” Harry said, feeling confused.

“Yes, but she took all the basic training and rotations. She actually _is_ a Healer, you know.” Draco sounded slightly amused.

“But there must have been more qualified Healers. Why didn’t they-?” 

Draco shrugged, annoyed, impatient. “They just didn’t.” 

“And Hermione gave you her telephone number?” Harry still didn’t really understand.

“Yes, just in case it happened again. Look,” now Draco _sounded_ impatient as well, “I’m only saying we could call her. I think that’s probably safer than using an owl or the Floo network in this case.”

Draco was right, of course.

*** 

After Harry had called Hermione, he and Draco had had dinner brought up to their room. 

“You didn’t bring the cube. You know, the one that is supposed to keep me in,” Draco mentioned once they were done eating. He sounded slightly astonished, as if he’d just realised it wasn’t there and it surprised him.

Harry shrugged. He had deactivated it in order for Draco to be able to leave his house, but Draco was right: he hadn’t taken it with them. “That thing is supposed to keep you in. At this point I’m more concerned about keeping others out. Besides, we’re going to sleep in one room anyway. I just got us this one room and to be clear: I’m not leaving you tonight. Those thieves will be looking for you.” 

Draco shot him a look and it was confusingly stuck between barely hidden gratitude and something else entirely. 

Harry didn’t really know what it was, but he did know he was serious about what he had said. He really wasn’t going anywhere.

***

After both Harry and Draco had put up a second round of the strongest Wards they could think of, just for good measure, they’d both dropped onto their beds fully clothed save their shoes. 

Their room held single beds - even though they were currently pushed together - and Harry realised it would be easy to shove them apart. He found he really didn’t want to, though. 

He resolved not to overthink why that could be. Well, he didn’t actually need to. He already knew.

“Why were you in the library anyway?” Harry decided to ask, because he wanted to keep his mind from going to unwanted places and it _was_ something he was curious about.

Draco just watched him silently for a beat, his eyes betraying confusion, hurt and uncertainty in equal measure. “I-, didn’t you notice? Your library was a complete mess. I thought I could catalogue it: putting everything on the same subject together in alphabetical order. I assumed it would be easier for you to actually use your library that way.” 

Harry just didn’t know how to respond for a moment. To say that the library in the old Black house had been a mess, was quite the understatement. It had been terrible: a dark, damp, cobwebby place with books strewn everywhere in complete disarray. When Harry had occupied the house after the war, he had walked in there once and then decided that he’d come back to it some other time. Perhaps.

And Harry realised with a slight pang that he hadn’t even thought about what Draco might be doing in his house throughout the day, when Harry was out.

To find out this was it, was strangely touching. 

“No, I didn’t notice. I was rather preoccupied when I walked in there today,” Harry mumbled. “And it was dark, for the most part.” Because, well, that was what it had been. Very dark. Except for where Draco had been, bleeding out.

***

Later that evening they were still on their beds, neither of them inclined to move. Draco had effectively confiscated the remote control for the television – ‘Potter, you wouldn’t even know how to use it’, which was quite unfair because Harry had lived in a Muggle household – zapping through a few channels before landing on a film with pirates and lots of elegant costumes. It probably figured that Draco would actually like that kind of thing. 

***

To Harry’s slight surprise, the film had really been quite entertaining and it was only when it had ended that Harry watched Draco again. 

He had fallen asleep, his head lolling to the side a bit. He was still pale and Harry silently reprimanded himself. How could he not have noticed? Even Harry himself was tired and for Draco, having been wounded the way he was, that must have been worse.

So Harry got a spare duvet from the wardrobe in the room and used it to cover Draco carefully.

Then he undressed and climbed into the other bed.

***

It was about an hour after Harry had also dozed off that the sound of Draco’s phone woke him up. There was a text message from Hermione stating that she and Ron had reached the hotel where they would be staying the night.

Good.

They would be safe too.


	7. Sunday

Harry woke up in the middle of the night again, this time to the sound of heavy, choked breathing. But it wasn’t his. His eyes had snapped open, only to find darkness, so, not able to produce the softly glowing orb that Draco usually conjured up, he cast a simple _Lumos_.

Somewhere at the back of his mind Harry had apparently feared someone had found them, but now he saw they weren't in any kind of danger. It was just Draco, obviously having a bad dream: his brow creased and his eyes shut tight. 

“Draco.” Harry tried to be just as careful as Draco had been this past week, shaking his shoulder gently. “Draco, it’s alright.” 

Draco was still panting when he woke up, obviously in a panic, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I-. You-.” He watched Harry now, sitting up, his eyes a bit wild. Harry absentmindedly registered that this probably was what he himself must have looked like to Draco every time he’d woken up from a nightmare. 

“Everything’s fine.” Harry said, reassuringly, knowing that sometimes it took time to come back to reality. 

“Yes,” Draco was still panting, but slower now. “Yes, I know. I just … . I was having a rather disagreeable dream.” 

Harry couldn’t help but smile a bit: it was quite typical of Draco to put it like that. 

“We had a message from Ron and Hermione, when you’d already nodded off last night. They’re fine too,” Harry proceeded to say. He had been trying to find something comforting to talk about, but this had been the only thing he’d apparently been able to come up with. 

Draco just looked at him for a moment and his eyes blinked a warmth that seemed entirely too much. Then it was gone. “Good.”

Harry offered Draco his hand, meanwhile shuffling closer, so they would fit on Draco’s bed together: since their beds weren’t a double Harry knew better than to lie on the miniscule gap between them. It would grow and eventually Harry would gracelessly end up between the two. 

Draco probably knew this too, because he didn’t comment when Harry lay so close that his chest was effectively pressed up to Draco’s back, his arm over Draco’s chest, their fingers interlaced as always.

And even though the space of just one bed was definitely limited, Harry found it was remarkably comfortable to fall asleep like that.

***

Harry woke to the grey of Draco’s eyes, his arm firmly over Draco’s waist now and their legs all tangled up together. It was much more enjoyable than it had any right to be. 

“Hey.” Draco still sounded gravelly, so he couldn’t have been awake for too long either.

“Hey.” Harry smiled and Draco smiled right back, the softness of night still lingering. Harry decided to just give into it, brushing a stray strand of blonde out of Draco’s face. Harry didn’t think he’d imagined the short gasp that followed.

Then Draco suddenly sat up, very Malfoy-ishly stating: “I’ll take a shower now. Do you still have that Dittany on you?”

Harry nodded, feeling a bit wrong-footed all of a sudden. “Yeah, I’ll put it on your bedside table.” 

***

Draco had really taken his sweet time in the bathroom, but when he came out he was completely dressed, in clothes that were quite clearly not pre trials - the materials rather course and his jeans not even close to form-fitting - but still he managed to look undeniably good, attractive. It probably didn’t help that his shirt hadn’t been buttoned up yet, hanging open and showing the creamy expanse that was his skin. It was very hard to miss. 

And very, _very_ hard not to stare at. At least if you were Harry apparently. 

Draco gave Harry a strange look. “It didn’t scar, you know. Snape got there in time for it not to leave a mark.” Draco’s voice was quiet and Harry just now realised what he was actually talking about, why he thought Harry had been staring at him.

_Sectumsempra._

Guilt wormed its way into Harry’s consciousness together with the realisation and now it proved to be very easy to look away from Draco’s chest all of a sudden.

Harry didn’t say anything, didn’t know how to, but Draco did: “It-, well, it wasn’t your fault, really. I was on the verge of casting something much worse.” Draco was silent for a moment before adding: “Sometimes I wish it _had_ scarred.” That made Harry look up at him again, making Draco’s silvery gaze shift away instead. “It would have been justice. A reminder,” Draco attempted to explain.

Harry felt stunned into silence. He wanted to say something comforting, settling on: “I don’t really think you need one. Not anymore.” Which sounded grossly inadequate to his own ears. He’d meant it, though and for some reason Harry thought Draco had picked up on that, shooting him a quick glance that looked like gratitude.

A rap on the door indicated that breakfast had mercifully arrived.

When Harry went to pick it up, he could feel the tingle of the Wards that Draco had set on their room, his magic lightly washing over Harry, letting him pass. 

It almost felt like a caress.

***

Draco had put Dittany on his healing wound (which had apparently been why he hadn’t buttoned up his shirt earlier yet) and then they’d had breakfast, eating mostly in silence, but not the awkward type so much. They just both seemed to be lost in their own thoughts.

Thoughts of Draco, in Harry’s case. Of how much Draco seemed to have changed, of how he could still be quite annoying, but surprisingly nice at the same time. 

Thoughts of how Draco was going to be entirely gone from Harry’s life later today. And of how much Harry resented that.

Because it was now that Harry fully realised that he really didn’t want Draco to leave, at least not completely, not without knowing he’d see him again.

It was a very unsettling thought.

“Harry.” It was Ron’s voice that startled Harry out of where his thoughts had lead him. Ron must be on the other side of the door, just outside of their hotel room. 

Was it that late already?

“Yes,” Harry answered.

“Fawkes,” Ron then said.

“Albus,” Harry answered, already walking to the door to open it, the code words a precaution they usually used in these sorts of circumstances.

When Harry had opened the door and finally saw Ron and Hermione again, there just seemed nothing to say at first, so, instead, he took turns hugging them tight for a moment. It was so good to have them back in the country again, safe and sound.

“So, you were obliviated?” Hermione addressed Draco now. It was very much like her to skip straight to what needed to be done, even though she’d been in Australia and Harry hadn’t seen her or Ron for almost a month. 

Harry noticed Draco had retreated to the far corner of the room and for a moment Harry thought he didn’t want anything to do with Harry’s friends. Until Harry remembered Draco actually had Hermione’s phone number in his phone and Harry looked again: Draco looked uncertain, as if he felt he didn’t belong and for some reason it made Harry’s heart ache a little.

He was glad now that Hermione had directed her question at Draco immediately. Draco, however, clearly hadn’t expected it yet, flinching a bit. “Well, apparently. I obviously don’t remember.” He sounded arrogant, indifferent, but Harry now thought he could hear the uncertainty underneath. 

And he saw Hermione did too. She smiled, genuinely: seemingly sympathetic if anything. “No, of course not. That seems to have been the whole point.” She walked up to him, taking a chair and sitting opposite Draco, almost close enough to touch. “Can I try some things?” Harry realised she was asking for more than permission: she was asking for trust.

Draco nodded without missing a beat. “Of course, by all means.”

***

“It was Mike Goodall. The potions thief that almost ran me over was Mike Goodall.” Draco now said, sounding almost surprised at his own memory, the one that Hermione had been able to retrieve after more than an hour of painstaking work. “He was-, he was an Auror at Azkaban.” 

Harry saw how tired Draco looked all of a sudden, sagging slightly in his chair. 

Next to Harry Ron gasped. “Are you absolutely sure? Because if you’re going to make accusations, just to clear your name, I swear I will-.” He was stopped by Hermione’s hand on his arm.

“I will submit my memory, of course,” Draco said and underneath his usual arrogance Harry could hear tiredness, resignation.

Hermione just nodded, though, producing an empty vial, which in her line of business would probably be pretty standard for her to carry. 

Draco took the vial without further comment, using his wand to extract the silvery substance of his memory and putting it in.

He handed it over to Ron, who seemed a bit taken aback and it was only after what seemed like a long moment that Ron spoke up: “Well, I think we should probably take this to the Ministry as soon as possible, straight to Robards I should think. The sooner this whole thing is over, the sooner we can all go back home. Coming, mate?” 

The question was addressed at Harry and Harry felt a surge of panic: if he went off now he was quite sure he wouldn’t see Draco again. Besides, what if the culprits found Draco? _They_ didn’t know the memory had already been taken. Perhaps they were still looking for him. Perhaps they would find him, hurt him, kill him, before he’d have chance to-.

It was Hermione who voiced his concerns: “I think Harry should stay with Draco until everything’s been solved, until he’s completely out of danger.” She gave both Harry and Draco a look Harry didn’t quite get. “And I think it’s probably best if I went with you,” she then told Ron. “So I can explain that this actually _is_ Draco’s memory, that it’s reliable and that it hasn’t been tampered with in any way.” 

***

“Was this Mike Goodall one of the guards that hurt you?” Harry asked and the question startled him too. He hadn’t really meant to ask it, although on the other hand he found he very much had.

“How do you know about-?” Draco cut himself short and Harry didn’t miss how Draco’s body involuntarily shuddered, although he sounded quite condescending again.

Harry decided he wouldn’t let that scare him off, though, not this time. “I talked to Luna,” he simply replied. 

“I see. But I never-.” 

“You didn’t have to. She saw.” Harry knew his voice sounded soft and Draco just watched him, his eyes unreadable. “She even wrote a letter to Robards about it,” Harry continued.

Draco looked away. “Oh.” He paused, then added: “She shouldn’t have. Prison, well, it’s not supposed to be nice, is it?”

Draco swallowed thickly and Harry fought the urge to touch him, for want of something comforting to say. Instead he just asked: “So was he? One of the guards that hurt you?”

Draco nodded quietly, silently speaking of things he didn’t say, things Harry could only imagine.

Harry thought he’d never actually wanted to caress Draco quite this much, but for some reason his courage - the courage that had made him into _the_ Harry Potter, the one that had saved the wizarding world – seemed completely lacking now. So Harry didn’t, instead feeling his anger at those fucking bastards that had been calling themselves guards at Azkaban sear. 

“I hope they let him rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life,” Harry had intended to say it under his breath, but it came out loud and fierce.

And it obviously caught Draco’s attentions, making him look at Harry with an unreadable expression, his pupils dilating just a fraction and his cheeks turning slightly pink. 

Harry liked the way Draco looked. Which made him remember again: tomorrow Draco would be gone, out of this room, out of Harry’s house, out of his life completely. 

It seemed an unbearable thought all of a sudden and the desperation Harry felt at that apparently made up for his lack of courage. “Do you remember?” Harry blurted out, entirely out of context, “You know, after we went to that club a few days ago?” Draco looked puzzled, but the pink on his cheeks intensified while he was seemingly holding his breath and suddenly Harry found his bravery, pulling his courage from hiding as if it were a rabbit from a hat: “That we-, that we kissed? Do you remember that we, erm, kissed?” 

Draco had turned completely red now and Harry knew Draco wouldn’t be able to deny that he remembered indeed. Not if he wanted it to be credible, anyway. “Yes,” he answered, “But we were quite drunk. I-.”

Harry watched him. “You what?” he probed. 

Draco ran his hand through his hair, pointedly not looking at Harry anymore, obviously upset. And Harry noted he didn’t just look tired anymore, he looked exhausted all of a sudden. “I-.” 

And Harry saw it: the moment Draco’s mask clicked back into place, hiding everything that was worth anything to Harry.

“I’m tired.” And with that Draco rose, elegantly fluid as always. He walked to the bed and sat down on it, proceeding to unbutton his shirt, his back stubbornly to Harry. 

Harry took a steadying breath, completely at a loss for a moment.

_Tomorrow he isn’t going to be there anymore._

So Harry got up and plonked unceremoniously down on the bed next to Draco, holding on to his courage while he still had it. “I don’t regret it,” Harry stated with all the certainty he felt. “Kissing you,” he added, just to be sure.

That made Draco look up, his brow a puzzled frown. “You don’t?” he asked, his voice still cool, but tinged with something else, something that sounded like the tiniest sliver of hope.

“No, I-, I rather hoped we could, you know, do it again?” Harry’s own voice wasn’t just tinged with hope now, it was positively swimming in it. 

Draco only watched him for a beat longer, apparently making up his mind, before he visibly came to a conclusion. The result wasn’t soft or gentle: Draco’s kiss was hard, demanding and so, so needy and Harry reciprocated in kind, pulling Draco in by the waist while he was at it.

Their kiss was all strength and teeth and desperation.

It was by far the best kiss Harry’d ever shared.

***

Harry knew exactly what he looked like when he opened the door of their hotel room to let Ron and Hermione back in that evening, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed and had only taken the time to sling on his trousers before opening the door. Which, of course, was precisely what had happened.

Ron and Hermione got in and if they thought anything of the fact that Harry looked the way he did and that Draco was only moderately more dressed - having managed to also put his shirt on, but not having fully buttoned it up yet, or tucked it in, for that matter - they didn’t let on.

“Do you know who actually worked with their curse breakers to get your Wards to yield?” Ron sounded so indignant that Harry suddenly doubted he had noticed their state of undress at all.

Harry shook his head silently.

“Terry Boot!” Ron spit out the name, utterly repulsed. “He just handed over every Warding spell he knew, so the curse breakers of those potions stealing thugs could work on undoing them faster.”

Now that _was_ a surprise. And it apparently showed on Harry’s face, which was all the incentive Ron needed to continue: “This Goodall guy needed some time to convince Boot, but when it was clear that they wanted to break into your house to ‘give Malfoy what he’d deserved all along’, as they put it, he started cooperating.” 

“Did Goodall and Boot know each other already?” Harry asked.

Ron nodded. “When Goodall worked in Azkaban - just before he resigned from the Auror force - Boot was stationed there, too, for a while. He said he trusted Goodall. We’ve interrogated them both on Veritaserum though and Boot mostly seemed to have trusted him to pay a rather large sum of money.”

“And to go after Draco,” Harry added drily.

Ron looked confused, just for a moment, which was when Harry realised he’d called Draco by his first name, but eventually Ron just nodded. “Yeah, that too.” 

Then a thought struck Harry: “But why didn’t they kill Draco straight away? You know when Goodall ran into him on Knockturn. Instead of obliviating him he could have killed him just as well, he obviously didn’t have any qualms about killing.” It was true, of course, and Harry felt an icy cold shiver pass through his body at the thought.

“Goodall made a split second decision, hoping that an obliviated Malfoy would be a suspicious Malfoy, what with his history and all. He thought the Aurors would go after Malfoy, at least for a while, leading them off Goodall’s trail. And, well, thanks to Boot that almost succeeded.” Ron paused for a beat, than added: “Boot is a right piece of shit, mate. I think it’s quite a feat that you’ve put up with him as long as you have.”

Harry smiled. “Me too. I’m just really glad you’re back.” 

*** 

“So now we can go home.” Draco said when Ron and Hermione had left again. His voice sounded just a little too bright and Harry watched him. Draco was decidedly not watching him back.

And all of a sudden Harry realised that home meant two different places. And that … . But, no, surely Draco couldn’t think-. Not after the afternoon they’d just spent. 

“Yes,” Harry answered, walking towards Draco, “but I’m off tomorrow and I’d like you to-. You know, if you want to.” 

Harry smiled at Draco, surely radiating all the warmth he felt, but when he tried to cup Draco’s jaw, Draco warded him off, wary all of a sudden. “You’d like me to-, what exactly? Be clear, Potter.” And for all his arrogance, his indifference, there was a plea to his voice.

“I’d like you to come with me for the night,” and when Harry saw the uncertainty still written on Draco’s face: “I’d like you to come over whenever you want. I’d like to see you as much as you’d allow. I’d like you to be part of my life. A real, solid part. I’d like us to be-.”

And that was when Draco pulled him in, fisting Harry’s T-shirt and dragging him into a searing kiss that was almost devastating in its ferocity. Harry put his hand on the nape of Draco’s neck without thinking, melting into the kiss, wanting Draco to know this wasn’t just now, willing him to feel that he’d meant every word.

And Harry thought Draco understood by the way his hand slowly unclenched Harry’s T-shirt and ended up on Harry’s hip, their kiss now lacking all previous urgency, turning deep, slow, sweet and utterly divine instead. 

Going home would just have to wait a while longer.


	8. Epilogue

Harry was leaning against the door frame, having learnt the hard way that it was particularly ill-advised to disturb Draco when he was brewing. Draco was standing over a potion, carefully counting while he was stirring.

Harry smiled to himself. Draco was good at this, really good. After Hermione had put in a good word - well, quite a lot of good words actually - Draco had been accepted to train under the Head Potioneer at St Mungo’s, only to wind up in the position of First Assistant within an astounding ten months, which meant he usually only brewed the more intricate potions now, the ones the other assistants were not allowed to make, the ones that sometimes needed a whole week to brew so that Draco had to come in on his Saturday off and stir. 

Like today.

“Hey, you’re here.” Draco, who had apparently finished stirring, was looking up at Harry, obviously surprised.

“Yeah, I got off a bit early and I thought I’d pick you up.” 

“So you did.” Draco smiled, straightening to his full height. “Just let me change first.” 

*** 

The alleyway they’d Apparated into after dinner was dark and secluded and Draco had been momentarily thrown off balance by the Side-Along. Which, of course, had been the only reason that Harry had pulled him in, their hips flush together. 

And it had undoubtedly been the enticing scent of Draco’s cologne that had done the rest, making Harry pin him to the wall of the alley and going straight for his lips, hot and inviting against his own, just a hint of tongue that wasn’t near enough. So - no other choice available - Harry had deepened their kiss, leaving them both breathless.

“Home?” Harry had panted. Draco had just nodded, looking positively dazed.

When they eventually made it to Blaise’s club that evening they were late, very late, which was quite clear, because - besides Ron and Hermione - even Luna and Neville had already arrived. Harry smiled at them and found he couldn’t even be bothered to feel guilty. He was just really happy to see them all. Here. With him and Draco.

“Let me get the next round,” Draco said, his voice posh and amicable all at the same time. 

Harry just watched him while he got everyone’s orders. Draco was smiling easily. At _Harry’s_ friends. It made Harry happy and proud, proud of his friends who had accepted Draco with minimal fuss, their reactions ranging from Hermione’s ‘Harry, you do realise you’ve been obsessed with Draco since sixth year, don’t you?’ and Luna’s ‘Draco’s quite sweet, really. I think you two make a really lovely couple.’ to Ron’s ‘Don’t ask me to like the git yet, but if he makes you happy, that’s enough for me.’ 

And that was the thing really: Draco made Harry happy, exceedingly so. It was strange perhaps, unexpected certainly, but there it was: Draco had somehow proved to be the missing piece of his puzzle. 

“Thinking, Potter?” Draco’s voice was so close that Harry could actually feel his breath hot against his ear. Apparently he had sneaked up behind Harry after putting their orders in. “You know your Auror mode is not allowed in here. No thinking tonight.” Harry could hear the smile to Draco’s voice, warm and genuine. He turned towards it without thinking, like a sunflower to the sun, finding Draco’s lips again, his whole world zooming in to just this.

“Oi, mate. You know I like you, but there’s only so much snogging I can take in one night.” 

So Harry reluctantly let go, smiling at Ron. “Sorry,” Harry didn’t sound the least bit sorry, though, “but I thought this would be a good time to get back at you for everything I had to endure when you guys first got together.” 

Ron actually had the decency to smile rather sheepishly at that. 

***

When Harry woke the next day, it was to the feel of Draco’s body warm against his. It was something that even after all those months still managed to make him unequivocally happy.

“It’s your turn to get the Hangover Potion,” Harry teased, without actually opening his eyes yet. Draco groaned. The monthly get-togethers with their friends - whoever was available joining them - were always soaked in alcohol, which invariably meant they needed Hangover Potion the morning after. 

So Harry felt Draco sit up gingerly, undoubtedly holding his head as he did so. 

_"Accio Hangover Potion."_

Harry heard the vial hit Draco’s hand, then him drinking it – he always drank first when he procured it, the egocentric bastard – and only then did Harry open his own eyes and sit up a bit, enough to be able to drink too. Draco wordlessly handed him the vial. 

“Oh, I didn’t tell you yet,” Harry said, when his head had cleared a bit, flushing slightly as he remembered what exactly he’d been so distracted by the day before that he hadn’t told Draco this yet. “Terry Boot has put in a request for his sentence to be reduced. His lawyer has written me a letter. I’ve just told him I wouldn’t know what to say that could help. I think the man has just written to anyone who’s ever worked with Boot, because, really, I wouldn’t know why else he would have asked _me_ of all people.”

Harry had expected Draco to agree with him easily, but Draco seemed lost in thought. “Your words still carry a lot of weight in the wizarding world and, well, I can imagine him trying. Five years is a long time to be in there,” Draco eventually said. 

Goodall had been sentenced to 20 years, but Boot had only got five. Harry had thought it was nowhere near enough when he’d heard it. “They almost killed you,” Harry just simply said as if that explained it all. 

To Harry it did.

Draco looked at him, his eyes the soft silver that Harry could never really get enough of. Then Draco suddenly smirked. “I suppose we’d better hurry, though, because I think Mrs Weasley will probably kill us _both_ if we’re late for lunch again. Especially since we can’t stay long. Shirin has a French test tomorrow and you know I promised-.” Draco’s face had gone all serious again. Tutoring was very important to him: he hadn’t missed one single session. And for some reason that always did something to Harry. “Don’t give me that look,” Draco said next, his voice both warm and pleading somehow. 

Harry kept smiling at him, though, and he knew it was soft, completely fond. He was utterly unable to look away from the grey of Draco’s eyes and even though Draco was probably right – Molly would undoubtedly not take kindly to them being late again - Harry still pulled Draco in for a kiss, intending it to be short.

It very much wasn’t – when had Harry ever been able to restrain himself when it came to Draco – their kiss long and lazy and utterly sweet.

And Harry rather muzzily realised they would most likely end up having to dress at top speed, hoping to make it to The Burrow in time, but he couldn’t bring himself to care: it was definitely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it for this story: it's done. Thank you all for reading and accompanying me on this (short) journey! I've had a lot of fun writing this fic and I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much.
> 
> Feel free to drop a comment, if you'd like to. They're read and appreciated (even if I don't always reply. I'm not particularly good at replying, I'm afraid).
> 
> And a big thank you to my Beta, of course!


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